


Wildflowers

by gemjam



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gender Identity, M/M, Transgender, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 52,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: Carl has always been drawn to girls but it takes him a long time to work out exactly why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being the longest oneshot I've ever written so I decided to split it into 4 parts to make it easier to consume. The whole thing is finished and edited and ready to post so I'll be uploading it over the next week.
> 
> For my kink bingo square **gender play**

_~_

_Like wildflowers, you must allow yourself to grow in all the places people thought you never would._

_~_

 

Being a girl is a bad thing. That’s what Carl has learnt from the school yard. It’s an insult. Carl doesn’t really get it but he accepts it. Internalises it. There’s certain things in the world that are not for him.

*

At the quarry he finds himself watching Sophia and Eliza, the things they do, the way they move, and he tries to work it out. He’s not that different from them, is he? He knows they have different… _stuff_. He learned about the human body in science class. But you’re not supposed to think differently about people because of the colour of their skin. Why does their body type matter so much?

He watches them with their dolls and he doesn’t want a doll but he wouldn’t mind dressing one up. The little outfits are cute, so much more interesting to him than cars and toy guns. He likes the colours and the different fabrics. He knows he’s not supposed to though so he keeps it to himself and goes to catch frogs with Shane. That’s a boy thing to do.

*

The farm feels like a dream at first, and even after the haze of pain has lifted and he can walk around, it still feels so disconnected from the rest of the world.

He’s drawn to Beth, with her jewellery and her pretty tops and her sweetness. It resonates with him. One evening, when everyone’s washing up after dinner or sitting out on the porch, he sneaks into her room and opens her closet. It’s full of such beautiful things, floaty and patterned and so soft when he reaches out to touch them. He’s mesmerised.

“What are you doing?”

He drops his hand, turns sharply to see Beth standing in the doorway.

“Nothing,” he says. “Looking for a change of clothes.”

“In my room?” she asks pointedly.

“No,” Carl dismisses, stepping away from the closet. “I didn’t know.”

“Get out,” she tells him. She doesn’t look angry, just irritated and a little confused.

Carl steps out of the room past her and then turns around again. “Why don’t you ever wear a dress? You have some really nice ones.”

“Don’t go through my things, perv,” she responds.

Carl frowns, not understanding, but he knows he’s done something very wrong.

*

Carl is grateful that he has a sister. He’s excited about watching her grow up, finding little outfits for her, toys, books, teaching her things. He didn’t like the idea of a little brother. He had friends with brothers, they always fought, rolling around on the floor, roughhousing with each other. It didn’t appeal to Carl. Fighting is something he has to do to survive. He wants being a big brother to mean something different to that.

He looks out for things when he goes out scavenging, and he’s jealous of all the frills and lace and pretty patterns. He’s jealous that people expect her to be gentle. He’s jealous that she’ll have such different expectations than him. He watches Rick with her and he wonders how it differs to how Rick treated him as a baby. Maybe it doesn’t matter at this age, but at some point a line is drawn. Carl watches as the weeks go by and he tries to work out where it is.

*

In the prison, it’s easier for their lives to intermingle. Carl doesn’t feel like a visitor anymore. They’re all in it together. It makes him a little braver, a little more entitled. They have to learn to share.

Beth has a lipbalm that makes her mouth shiny and red. She doesn’t wear it every day. Maybe it’s a reflection of her mood. Maybe she wears it on days she needs something to feel good about. Carl has a lot of those days.

When he passes her cell and sees that it’s empty he slips inside, picking it up from its place on the desk. There’s a lot of things scattered across the surface, hairclips and bracelets and trinkets. The kinds of things that girls collect.

“Hey.”

Carl turns to see Beth in the doorway, smiling at him.

“My lips are sore,” he offers before she can even ask. “I’ve been in the sun all day.”

She looks amused. “You know that’s tinted, right?”

Carl looks down at it, turning it over in his hand. “What?”

“I might have some Vaseline somewhere,” she says, coming into the cell.

“Never mind,” Carl dismisses, dropping it back down onto the desk and rushing out of the door.

This isn’t for him. None of this is for him.

*

“How do you even do that?” Carl asks, watching as Beth braids a section of her hair.

She looks up at him, her fingers still moving even though she’s not looking in the mirror anymore. “It’s easy.”

“Right,” he mutters.

“Do you want me to show you?” Beth offers.

Carl stills, meeting her eyes. Boys can’t have braids.

“You can do it for your sister when she gets a little older.”

“Oh,” Carl says. He steps further into the room. “Yeah. Thanks. She’ll like that.”

“You’ll be the best big brother,” Beth says, running her fingers through her hair to undo what she’s just done and start over. “You separate it into three like this…”

Carl watches, concentrating hard as the strands wrap around each other, trying to follow each one. She lets him try and he makes a mess of it, losing track of which section goes where. He purses his lips together and frowns.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head.

“Try again,” she shrugs. “It takes a little practice.”

He does it again and after a few more tries he finds himself getting into a rhythm. His fingers move in sync and he smiles to himself, feeling incredibly proud.

“Perfect,” Beth praises, putting an elastic in to secure it.

“Looks nice,” Carl agrees. His hair isn’t long enough for braids. Judith is going to love this though.

“Carl.”

He turns to see Rick in the doorway, watching him, something almost unsettled in his gaze. Carl instinctively steps away from Beth, distances himself.

“I could use some help outside,” Rick tells him.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. He turns to Beth on his way out. “Thanks.”

She smiles and shrugs and goes back to doing her hair.

“I think she might be a little too old for you,” Rick comments as they get outside.

Carl frowns at him. He can see Rick disapproving of their chosen activity, but Beth’s age? Why can’t he have a friend a few years older? It’s not that big a deal.

*

Carl learns a lot of things on the road. He learns how much he took for granted. He learns that other humans are far more scary than walkers. Lessons that should have sunk in a long time ago.

He watches the people around him, this family that he’s forged, and everything from his old life starts to unravel. Girls aren’t weak. Girls don’t need protecting. The girls he knows are strong and brave and capable. Being a girl isn’t an insult.

It resets something in his brain. He knows that there’s still rules, but the taunts, they’re not true.

He starts to collect things. He goes into bedrooms and he takes shiny little trinkets, hides them at the bottom of his rucksack. If anyone finds them he’ll say they’re for Judith, when she’s older. They’ll think it’s sweet.

He opens a set of drawers in one room while he listens to his dad next door and he feels like he hits the jackpot. Everything is soft, lace trimmed, so unapologetically feminine. He takes pieces out one at a time, holds them up, looks at the way the fabric falls. He wants to feel it against his skin.

When he hears his dad moving he grabs one, shoves it to the bottom of his rucksack, slams the drawer closed and tells Rick there’s nothing in here, they should keep moving.

At night, when everyone’s asleep and he’s wide awake with shame and anxiety, he reaches into his bag and he feels the smooth, cool fabric, and it calms him. He runs his fingers over it again and again and he knows it’s wrong to want it, knows that it’s not for him, but what’s the harm if no one else knows. They all have secrets; he should be allowed to keep his.

*

Alexandria gives him the first opportunity for real privacy in a long time. He has his own room. He has a bathroom with a lock.

The first day he’s in there so long he’s certain Rick must think he’s jerking off. That would be less embarrassing than what he’s actually doing.

He pulls off his shirt and unscrews the girl’s top from his bag. It’s wrinkled from being hidden for so long and he shakes it out, frowning at it. It will never be perfect. Neither will anything else in this world. They have a house and walls but Carl’s not going to be lulled into thinking it’s forever.

The material is smooth and soft against his flesh. His fingers slide over it as he tries to straighten it out. He fusses with it long after he knows he can’t make it look any better because he’s scared to look up. He’s scared to face himself.

He’s been growing his hair out and when faced with his reflection he thinks, yeah, he could pass for a girl. If people didn’t know better, if he dressed it up well enough, he could pass.

He reaches up, takes a section of hair and separates it into three strands. He’s never had the opportunity to try this on himself yet. It’s different than playing with Beth’s hair, everything backwards in the mirror, but he gets it right after a couple of tries, sending a little thanks up to Beth.

He tilts his head, considering himself. There’s no shame in being a girl. Unless you were born a boy.

*

“Do you want me to cut your hair?” Enid offers, playing with a pair of scissors on the kitchen counter. “I used to do my dad’s.”

“Why would I want you to cut my hair?” Carl asks.

“Because you look like a girl,” Enid teases.

“So?” Carl asks defensively.

Enid shrugs. “I was only offering.”

Carl frowns, turning to get a glass from the cabinet so she doesn’t see his face. He thought the hair was something no one would really notice and it was easy to justify it when they were out on the road. Rick doesn’t look like a drifter anymore though. It’s expected that Carl will fall in line too.

He gets a glass of water and sits down at the counter with her. He likes having a girl who’s a friend again, someone he can watch live out his urges, someone he can learn from. Enid is a tomboy though, she doesn’t have those touches Beth used to have. Being a girl is not one thing though. Carl has no right to judge.

“Do you think I should cut it?” he asks. He’ll do it if it avoids questions, if it helps him fit in. He doesn’t want to draw attention to his differences that feel more like defects every day.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Enid responds. “I just thought it might be annoying you.” She turns to face him more fully, considering him. “I think it suits you.”

“Yeah?” Carl asks, trying to keep the note of hope out of his voice.

“Sure,” Enid says, turning back to her comic book.

*

Through the frustration and the fear and the adrenaline, Carl still feels a little spark of belonging when he’s taken to meet Negan’s wives. These are the kind of women he’s missed being around; feminine, pretty dresses, nice hair. All the things that Carl has been drawn to for so long despite himself. This is where he wants to be.

Maybe that’s the real reason he offers to go back to the Sanctuary with Negan, pay off his penance. He watches them, and he sees Negan smirking at him, laughing to himself, because he thinks that Carl has a crush. He thinks that he’s horny. Nothing about this turns him on though. He’s just mesmerised by the possibility.

One day when Negan goes out to check on one of the communities, Carl finally gets the guts to go up there alone. When he peers around the doorway to the lounge there’s just Sherry in there, swirling a glass of whiskey around and staring into space. It’s not even midday.

She spots him hovering there and gives him an unimpressed look. “Does Negan know you’re up here?”

“He’s gone out,” Carl says, moving forward a little but not quite stepping into the room.

“Well, you still need his permission,” Sherry explains, sounding incredibly bored. “You can’t touch any of us without it.”

“You’re not my type,” Carl tells her. She raises her eyebrow, nodding her head before taking a swig of whiskey. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “I know I’m not his type.”

“He doesn’t have a type,” Sherry responds. She considers him for a moment. “Why are you up here?”

Carl shrugs, stepping into the room and leaning against the wall, as far away from her as he can get. “I like your hair.”

Sherry gives him a look. “Your flirting needs work.”

“I’m not flirting,” Carl says. “I just like it. Do you have… styling… stuff?”

“You came up here to ask me about grooming tips?” Sherry asks incredulously.

“No,” Carl says, moving away from the wall. “I don’t know.”

He can feel himself blushing as he turns away, stepping back out of the door.

“Hey, kid,” Sherry calls. Carl turns. “You want to see?”

Sherry’s room is like everything he’s dreamed of. He stares at her mirrored vanity table, makeup and brushes and curlers and jewellery, and he feels that familiar ache, that jealousy. These things aren’t for him.

“Sit down,” Sherry invites.

Carl hesitates but she just smiles kindly at him, like she gets it, but Carl doesn’t think she possibly can. He doesn’t even get it himself. He sits, staring at himself in the mirror, surrounded by all these things that he wants so badly but can’t touch. He thinks about being alone here, wonders what he’d try out first. All he’s ever had is stolen little bits and pieces of the life he craves. Having a treasure trove like this, he’s not sure he’d know where to start.

Sherry picks up a brush and starts to comb Carl’s hair, humming to herself, arranging it around his face. Carl watches in the mirror and it’s not a big transformation but it hits so deep. This is what he wants, to be pampered, to indulge this side of himself, even if just for a moment.

“You’ve got nice hair too,” Sherry says, coming around to look at him.

“Thanks,” Carl mutters, still looking at himself.

Sherry puts the brush down, picks something else up. “You’ve got great eyelashes,” she says. “Do you want to try some mascara?”

She holds it up and Carl stares at it. He wants it like he’s been in the desert for years and she’s offering him a glass of water. He doesn’t think he can possibly take it though. He has no right.

“Hold still,” she says, taking the decision for him.

Carl does as he’s told, trying not to flinch as the wand comes towards his eye. She’s careful, focussed, sweeping his lashes over and over, lips pressed together in concentration. When she steps back Carl looks into the mirror. The dark lashes contrasting against his pale eye looks stunning. Every lash looks so delicate yet so defined, everything that draws him towards being a girl.

He looks down at the vanity table, feeling braver. “Can I try some lipstick?”

“Sure,” Sherry smiles.

Carl picks them up, looking over the colours, and he can’t help but choose the red one. It reminds him of Beth’s lip balm that he used to fantasise about back in the prison, but this is bolder, even more strident. It feels like a graduation.

His hand shakes as he presses the colour to his lips, tracing the shape carefully, coating them with the rich colour. He pulls it away, presses his lips together like he’s seen on TV, like he remembers his mom doing when he used to watch her get ready for a night out before Carl was left with the babysitter and the expectation that he wanted to watch monster trucks. What he wanted was to play dress up in his mom’s closet.

He looks at himself again, the hair, the lashes, the ruby red lips, and now he could pass. He could definitely pass. It’s like something that’s been out of alignment his whole life has finally clicked into place. This is what he’s dreamed about seeing every time he looked in the mirror since before he could even articulate it to himself.

A tear rolls down his face and he quickly wipes it away.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Great time to cry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s waterproof,” Sherry tells him. “In this place, you need makeup that isn’t going to get ruined when you cry.”

Carl looks up at her, feeling sad. It’s like this building is to Sherry what Carl’s body is to him. Holding him hostage in a way that he can’t reconcile himself with because what are the other options?

“You look good,” Sherry tells him.

Carl looks at himself again, taking a deep breath and trying to commit it all to memory. He can’t live like this, but just having it for a moment, it’s more than he dreamed he was going to get.

“Did you always feel like this?” Sherry asks.

“Like what?” Carl asks, still staring at himself.

“Like you’re… in the wrong body?”

Carl looks up at her. It’s a notion he’s never heard before. “Is that a thing?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling at him a little sadly. “That’s a thing.”

“But people who think that,” Carl says. “What do they do with them? Lock them up? Isn’t that something that’s wrong with their brains?”

“No,” Sherry says simply. “They don’t lock them up. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“But…” Carl starts again, unable to get his head around it. “People think they’re freaks, right? How can you be in the wrong body? It’s just a body.”

“It’s complicated,” Sherry says, and Carl gets the impression that she regrets bringing it up.

He mulls it over in his brain as he stares at his reflection. He thought there was something wrong with him, thought he was broken, all these urges and wants he’s been carrying around. He doesn’t know if he wants to be a girl, if he would swap his body if he could, but he wants the option to play around with it. He wants to not feel like a freak for favouring things society tells him he shouldn’t want.

The fact that other people have gone through this, that apparently enough is known about it that Sherry can see him for what he is, it makes him feel exposed, like everyone’s been looking at him in this light that he can’t quite understand. But it also gives him hope. It might not be right but at least he’s not alone. He’s broken in a way that people have been broken before.

“You could definitely pull off a Farrah Fawcett style with this hair,” Sherry comments. “You’re halfway there already.”

“A what?” Carl asks, looking at her in the mirror.

“Right, you’re too young,” Sherry comments.

“I haven’t learned anything new about the world since I was twelve,” Carl says, embarrassed by the admission. “About walkers and killing and survival, sure. But not the rest of it.”

“A teenager without the internet,” Sherry says. “I think you’d understand yourself a lot better if you did. I think you’d feel less alone.”

Carl used to use the internet for homework and playing games and finding out facts about his favourite cartoon characters. Imagine the things he could be finding out now. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so unsettled in his own skin if Sherry is right, if there are other people that feel this weird disconnection with what they see in the mirror.

“Do you ever wear the clothes?” Sherry asks.

“I have a top,” Carl admits. “It’s soft and strappy with lace. I wear it under my T-shirt when I go to sleep sometimes.”

Sherry walks over to the wardrobe, opening it up. “Like this?”

Carl gets up, goes over to join her, and it’s even better than the vanity table. There’s rows of tops and tiny nightgowns, all in different soft and shiny materials, all with gorgeous little details. They’re so perfect they look practically untouched.

“Mine is creased,” Carl says sadly. “It’s always been creased. I have to hide it.”

“You can have one if you want,” Sherry offers. “You’re skinny, it’ll probably fit.”

Carl looks at her, wide-eyed and hopefully. “Really?”

Sherry smiles at him. “Take your pick.”

He runs a hand over them all, making them sway on their hangers, the softness catching on his rough hands. There’s so many colours, so many styles, it’s almost impossible to choose. He picks a few up, puts them back, wanting so desperately to get it right. In the end he picks out a blue one with a white lace trim around the top and a couple of buttons wrapped in the same luscious material. It’s shiny and so smooth, the material seeming to glide as it hangs.

“It’s a camisole,” Sherry tells him.

“Camisole,” Carl repeats obediently, like he’s learning a foreign language. He looks up at Sherry. “You’re not going to tell Negan about this?”

“If he finds you with that you, you stole it from me when I wasn’t here,” Sherry responds.

It’s a kindness but it’s also a warning.

Carl nods his understanding. “Thank you.”

*

It turns out Sherry is right, Negan doesn’t have a type, or if he does, Carl falls within it. He likes the idea that Negan sees some quality in him that he sees in his wives.

He admires Negan’s body in a way that he could never admire his own; from a distance. When his hormones started kicking in, Carl thought his attraction to other men’s bodies, strong men’s bodies, was aspirational. He thought maybe he was going to be okay, that he aspired to something normal after all, that he was finally learning to covet his own body.

The slow revelation that he didn’t want to be in those bodies, he wanted to be against them, was a whole new level of unravelling.

With Negan he feels like he finally starts to understand where he slots in. Sherry says it’s a spectrum and he’s trying to believe that his place on it is acceptable.

Negan is rough with him but never cruel, never violent. His words can hurt, knocking Carl off kilter, fingering his insecurities. He gets used to the cutting sense of humour, schoolyard humour, boys will be boys humour. Locker room stuff. Carl was never really into sports and groups of boys always made him nervous. He was terrified of being found lacking.

The first time they fuck Carl refuses to romanticise it, but he can’t fight the very specific feeling that it gives him. He’s never had distinct fantasies about sex, has never really known enough about it, but he knows how babies are made, knows what boys and girls do, knows that he’s always wanted that too, but as usual he found himself on the wrong side of the equation.

Being beneath Negan’s body, being fucked by him, it’s the most inescapable thing in the world and Carl can’t get enough of it. When Negan is grinding inside him, pinning down his arms, leaving bruises, Carl feels a rush of acceptance. He gets to play the part and he’s not seen as any frailer for it.

Girls aren’t weak.

*

On the nights that Carl knows Negan isn’t interested in him, when he’s already selected his bed mate for the night, Carl locks his door and he puts on the camisole that Sherry gave him, slipping beneath the covers and smoothing his hands over it as it lulls him off to sleep. He wants to be draped in nothing but satin and silk. He wants to be beautiful.

Sometimes, if Negan is away from the Sanctuary for a day or two, Carl leaves the camisole on under his shirt all day, knowing that no one will find it. He always feels happier on those days, more content. He feels complete.

The feeling of peace evaporates when he hears the trucks pull up outside a day early. Carl watches out of the window as Negan strides out with Lucille, joking about something, but Carl’s not sure if it counts as a joke if he’s the only one laughing.

Carl is all too aware of the camisole against his skin, making goosebumps rise up all over his body. He can’t risk having this on around Negan, he has to get rid of it. He heads towards the stairs but it takes him past the entrance and he practically ploughs right into Negan as he tries to get through.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Negan leers, and Carl knows he’s in trouble. Negan stops, cocking his hips, considering Carl critically. “What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?”

Carl shakes his head. “I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.”

Negan smiles at him, sly, sexual. “You doing something you shouldn’t be?” he teases.

“No,” Carl says a little too petulantly.

“Good,” Negan says, his voice dark and serious, eyes to match. It makes Carl edge away from him. “Grab that and follow me.”

Carl looks over, takes a box from one of the men and falls in step behind Negan. It’s not guaranteed that Negan is going to immediately want sex, but he’s been without for a couple of days so it’s a fairly safe bet. Negan isn’t one to withhold pleasure from himself any longer than is absolutely necessary.

As they trail up the stairs, Carl looks out for Sherry, hoping he can give her some kind of signal to come take over from him. He already owes her about a million favours though.

They reach Negan’s room and he gestures for Carl to go in ahead of him, swinging the door closed behind them. Carl places the box on the table and as he straightens up he finds Negan right there behind him, pressing their bodies tightly together. Carl sidesteps him, spinning around.

“I have to go.”

“Really?” Negan asks, looking amused. “You got a date?” He steps up closer to Carl again, stalking him, and Carl shrinks away. “What? You’re just going to make me trip over you and then play hard to get?”

“I was on my way upstairs,” Carl dismisses. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Bullshit you didn’t, I’m always on your radar,” Negan states confidently.

Carl really can’t argue with that. He tries to think of somewhere he needs to be, a job he should be doing, but Carl still isn’t trusted with anything that’s important to the running of the Sanctuary, isn’t even allowed a weapon. Carl knows his place and he’s never fought it, has embraced it, being a part of Negan’s harem. He knows it doesn’t give him an excuse to leave the room right now though.

Negan reaches out, slides his hand over Carl’s waist, the fabric of his T-shirt riding up. Negan is expecting skin of course. Carl dodges him, circling back around towards the door, but he doesn’t dare go out of it, not without permission. Negan spins around to look at him, an expression on his face that Carl can’t read.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Carl says, tugging at his T-shirt, making sure he’s covered, but he can tell it’s already too late.

“What are you wearing?” Negan asks, eyeing him up, trying to get a glimpse.

“Don’t,” Carl begs, his voice small. “Please don’t.”

Negan stares at him, and it’s not like when he was considering whether to kill him, it’s not like when he was considering whether to fuck him, not like when he’s working something out that’s going to ruin Carl. He looks like he’s figuring out an equation, putting the pieces together, and Carl has to look away, can’t stand to see what the conclusion is.

“There’s no dress code,” Negan finally states.

“I know,” Carl agrees. _So I should be allowed to wear it_ is on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t dare say it out loud.

Negan moves towards him and Carl instinctively shifts back until he finds himself against the bed. It’s the most dangerous place he could possibly be.

“Show me,” Negan requests.

There’s something in his voice that finally makes Carl look up. This is something that could destroy Carl, could make him a laughing stock to everybody in this building, could strip away any tiny slivers of respect he’s built up here. This is something that could be used to humiliate and break. There’s no malice in Negan’s gaze though and Carl knows just how cruel he can get. He simply looks interested.

Carl shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself.

“No?” Negan asks.

He drops it instantly, turning around and placing Lucille on the table. He sits on the sofa and pulls his box towards himself, opening it up. Carl watches as he starts pulling ornate little glass ornaments out of it, considering each one before lining them up on the table. Carl can feel his heart beating too fast as the silence stretches on, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knows it can’t be as easy as this.

“These are fancy as fuck,” Negan says, tossing the empty box aside. “What do you think, kid? Should I put them in here or donate them to the wives, earn me some brownie points?”

He looks up at Carl, considering him for a moment, and Carl just stares back.

“Now why are you standing over there glaring at me?” Negan asks. “Did I say shit to you?”

“No,” Carl admits.

“No,” Negan agrees, in a tone of voice that tells Carl he should be very grateful. “Come sit the hell down.”

Carl moves across the room, going to sit opposite Negan, but Negan shakes his head, motioning to the space beside him on the sofa. Carl sags but does as he’s told. Negan fusses with his ornaments on the table, turning them around.

“I didn’t know you were into that,” he comments in a tone of voice you might use to discuss the weather.

“I’m not,” Carl insists.

“That doesn’t turn you on?” Negan asks, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not…” Carl begins but he trails off. He doesn’t know what it is.

“Turns me on,” Negan states, picking up another ornament.

Carl frowns. That’s not the point, not why he does it, but he wants to be pretty, wants to be appreciated for it, wants that version of himself to be accepted.

“I’d fuck you like that,” Negan adds. “Fuck your shitting brains out.” He puts the ornament down and turns his attention fully to Carl. “Not gonna happen, though, is it?”

Carl shakes his head, feeling almost apologetic now.

“Run along then,” Negan tells him.

Carl knows that he shouldn’t feel disappointed, he wasn’t working under any misconceptions, he knew why Negan brought him up here, but it feels like scratching the surface of something and Carl suddenly so badly wants to have the truth forced out of him. Hiding is exhausting.

“When we get to the bottom of this, I’m not going to let you resent me for it,” Negan states, and Carl knows that it must be written all over his face. “You volunteered yourself to come here. This place. My bed. You’ll volunteer the rest of it. And then I own every corner of your brain and you can’t run and hide because I’m in there, Carl. That’s how this works. It’s all going to be mine, sooner or later.”

Carl feels a shudder go through him and he tries to suppress it but Negan just smirks at him and Carl feels so pathetically transparent. This isn’t like his old life, when screwed up clothes in the bottom of backpacks and bathroom locks are enough to save him. He knew when he signed up to this there were never going to be any half-measures and it’s way too late to back out now.

“I need to get my dick sucked,” Negan states. “Get on your knees or go.”

Carl swallows, seriously considering it, but then he gets to his feet, heading for the door.

“What kind of things do you like?” Negan asks as Carl reaches out for the door handle. He stops, turns back towards him. “I can hook you up.”

Carl doesn’t even know where to begin. He runs through every want in his head, all the things that have called out to him over the years, everything he’s had to pretend he didn’t care about. Clothes, pretty clothes, soft fabrics, lace, hair clips, bows, braids, necklaces, bracelets, rings. He wants curlers like Sherry, he wants makeup, nice makeup, wants to know how to put it on properly. He wants acceptance.

He doesn’t say anything though, can’t form a single word. He just stares at Negan as his head is flooded like a drug. He wants but he doesn’t dare ask because this all still feels like some horrible, sneaky trap.

“Gonna leave me to my own devices?” Negan asks. “I default to slutty, but fine.”

Carl frowns at him.

“Go,” Negan tells him, waving his hand in a shooing gesture like Carl is an irritating dog. “Fuck off.”

Carl nods and then ducks his head, slipping out of the door.

*

The gifts start appearing in Carl’s room a couple of days later. The first one is a lace corset left on his bed. It’s red and stiff and sheer. It doesn’t appeal to Carl at all. He doesn’t want figure fitting, things that will highlight all the ways in which his body isn’t a good fit. He likes softer fabrics, like the caress of them, how they make everything feel slightly out of focus.

He throws the corset in a drawer and doesn’t look at it again.

Three days later there’s a little tube of eyeliner on his pillow. Carl picks it up and sighs. Negan is trying to dress him up like something out of _Rocky Horror_. He doesn’t get it at all.

Every few days there’s something new on Carl’s bed. Carl never sees who leaves them there, if it’s Negan himself or one of his errand boys. The thought fills Carl with a deep shame. No one treats him any differently though and Carl has been watching, looking for sly glances, amusement, disgust.

Negan never mentions it either, doesn’t twist the knife like he so easily could. He still calls Carl into his room, still pushes him down to his knees, pulls his hair while he fucks his cock. He still bends him over the sofa, pins him to the bed, still acts as aggressive as always with him. He looks at Carl no differently than he did at the beginning and Carl’s still not sure if that’s a denial or acceptance of who Carl really is.

As time goes on, Carl builds up a collection and the gifts become closer and closer to things he would actually pick out for himself. He wonders how Negan is working it out; they’ve never spoken about it since that day. Maybe Carl just looks more content, like he’s sleeping better. Maybe Sherry is giving Negan clues. The thought makes Carl feel touched rather than exploited.

There’s one top, white with little grey polka dots, that becomes his favourite the second he touches it. The label tells him it’s 100% silk and the feel of it is so delicate he can’t wait to put it on.

Usually he doesn’t allow himself to use any of his presents until the early hours of the morning, when he knows everyone’s asleep, when he knows Negan won’t come calling. Even when Negan’s away he doesn’t take the risk anymore. He can never be certain enough of anything to know that it’s safe.

And so he waits, until everything is quiet, until all the doors are closed, and then he locks his own door, checks it twice, and he sits down at his desk, opening his top drawer and turning it into a vanity like the girls upstairs have. His mirror is a small shaving mirror and he doesn’t have nearly as many cosmetics and shiny things, but it’s more than he ever thought he’d have. He tries to curb his jealousy by reminding himself that he could so easily have nothing but a crumpled top in the bottom of a backpack.

These things aren’t for him. He’s getting so much more than he deserves. He reminds himself to be grateful.

He puts on one of his pretty tops, plays with his makeup, experiments. He often ends up looking like a five-year-old who got into their mom’s makeup bag, overdone and crude. It’s so frustrating and it makes him feel less than. He thinks back to Beth teaching him how to do braids and he wishes someone could have taught him this. As it is, he has to work it out on his own.

He prefers the subtler shades because his mistakes are less obvious. It leaves him feeling dissatisfied though, like he’s playing in a world he doesn’t belong in, like he’s a diluted version of the real thing.

He washes it all off in the little sink in the corner of his room before he goes to bed, tidies everything back into the drawer and turns the desk back into just a desk. Ordinary, expected, everything hidden below the surface. Just like him.

With the white silk top, he can’t wait. It’s still early evening but he locks his door, turning it slowly, trying to avoid the definitive click. He feels like it’s a spotlight on him, telling the whole Sanctuary that he’s doing something secret, dirty, wrong.

He shrugs off his shirt, pulls his T-shirt over his head, and then he picks the camisole up from the bed, dangles the dainty straps from two fingers. He knows that he’s romanticising it but he can’t help savouring every moment he gets like this. To the rest of the world he’s a boy, jeans and boots and shirt, things he’s never felt comfortable in.

He slides the top on, the material skimming his flesh, making him tingle and glow. He loves the way it falls, indistinct but undeniably feminine. It gives a shape to his body that he can’t have any other way, gives him the silhouette he’s always imagined in his head. He gazes down at his body, at the pale silk gliding around him, and he doesn’t ever want to change, to move out of this moment, because anything other than standing here just like this in the middle of his little room feels so dishonest he can’t respect himself at all.

Eventually he knows he has no choice. He doesn’t have the luxury of being who he wants to be. None of them do, he supposes. He pulls the top over his head, folding it neatly and placing it in the drawer with his other treasures. He picks up his T-shirt and the cotton is soft from being worn so many times but it’s not the same thing, not even an echo of it. He pulls it on and throws himself down on his bed, closing his eyes and imagining silk instead.

He thinks maybe he’s dozed off when he hears a knock at his door. His head is still filled with pretty things, his silk top, how he’d look with his hair and makeup done. He sits up, feeling groggy, and crosses the room, sliding his drawer open and running his fingers over the material. There’s another knock at the door, harder, followed by that familiar whistle. Carl slides the drawer closed and opens the door to see Negan leaning on his doorframe, Lucille resting on his shoulder.

“Am I interrupting something? Negan asks pointedly.

Carl shakes his head. “No.”

Negan’s eyes slide down his body, staring at his crotch, before sliding back up to his face. “You’re not jerking off in here?”

Carl feels his cheeks heat but he gives Negan an irritated look. “No.”

“Well, if you’re not playing with yourself, do you want to come play with me?”

Carl feels himself soften, a little smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He feels warm from his dream, from his dress up session, from Negan’s hungry eyes on him. He nods his head.

“Yes, please.”

Negan steps back, nodding his head down the corridor, and Carl begins to walk, listening to Negan closing his bedroom door behind them.

*

“Do you have any idea how starry eyed you were when I came to your room tonight?” Negan asks. “Fucking adorable.”

Carl lets his head fall to the side to look at Negan, propped up on one elbow, smirking down at Carl, so completely together. It makes Carl feel like prey, like this is just getting started.

“Does that mean I’m doing good?” Negan asks.

Carl struggles to even comprehend the question, work out what Negan might be _doing good_ at. After two orgasms he’s utterly wrecked and just trying to work out if it’s okay to pass out here. Anything more complex than that is beyond him.

“You like your new top?” Negan prompts

“Oh,” Carl replies as it all slots into place. It feels unfair of Negan to bring this up now, when his inhibitions are so low, literally fucked out of him. “It’s a camisole.”

“Is it?” Negan asks, looking amused.

“I think so,” Carl responds. If he’s honest with himself he’s not certain what the criteria is.

“Do you like it?” Negan presses.

“Yeah,” Carl admits.

He looks at Negan, on edge, waiting to be made fun of. He still doesn’t trust this, doesn’t trust that Negan isn’t setting him up for an almighty fall. He appreciates being able to explore this side of himself, but he feels like it must come with consequences. He hasn’t quite worked out yet what price he’ll have to pay.

“Feedback is appreciated,” Negan says, rolling onto his back with a heavy sigh.

And there it is, Carl thinks. He has to share. He has to indulge Negan’s voyeurism.

“This isn’t about you,” Carl tells him, turning onto his side so he can look at him fully.

“Excuse me?” Negan responds, raising his eyebrows at him.

“This isn’t…” Carl trails off, feeling frustrated, but he can’t let this go uncorrected. It could lead him down a very dangerous path. “It’s not for you. It’s not so you can get turned on by some… weird… fantasy. This isn’t about sex.”

Negan is quiet for a moment, considering him, the look that makes Carl dread what might be coming next.

“Have I ever made you talk about this?” Negan asks, an edge to his voice.

“No,” Carl admits.

“Have I ever made you show me?”

Carl shakes his head, feeling small and chastised. “No.”

“You’re right, it’s got fuck all to do with me,” Negan agrees. “But I have been nice enough to provide you with pretty things so you can do whatever it is you do. I never asked for details. All I want to know is if I’m getting it right. All I want to know is if there’s anything you’d like me to get hold of for you. It’s a simple fucking question, Carl. I just want to know if I’m pissing into the wind.”

“I’m sorry,” Carl murmurs. He curls in on himself and he wants a hug but he has no right to ask. He’s supposed to be stronger than that. “Thank you,” he adds. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Don’t go soft on me,” Negan says, looking even more irritated. “You can be as pretty as you want, but soft doesn’t suit you.”

Carl looks down, feeling more unsure than ever. His whole life he’s felt like he was playing a part, changing who he was for his audience, but he never knows who Negan wants him to be. He can’t quite believe he wants him to be himself. Carl doesn’t even know who that is.

Negan rolls onto his side, reaching out a hand and brushing Carl’s hair aside. Carl lifts his gaze to look at him, silently asking a question that he hopes that Negan will answer. Instead, Negan’s fingers graze over the edge of his scar, his missing eye. Carl frowns, trying to shift away.

“Does that hurt?” Negan asks.

Carl shakes his head. “No.”

“Don’t flinch then,” Negan tells him.

Carl settles against the pillow, watching Negan’s face as his finger explores the edge of the scar, his expression a mixture of sick fascination and something much softer.

“If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop,” Negan states. “That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.”

“You killed my friends,” Carl points out.

“I did,” Negan agrees easily. “But only after you killed my friends.”

“You don’t have friends,” Carl insists.

Negan considers this for a moment. “Maybe not,” he concedes. “But you killed my men. A whole hell of a lot of them. You didn’t leave me with any choice. You know the rules now, Carl. Play by them and we’ll be just hunky-dory.”

Carl nods his head. He does know the rules and as long as he’s followed them, Negan has been nothing but fair to him. But these are uncharted waters and Carl hasn’t even found his own comfort zone with it yet, let alone worked out what Negan expects of him, what’s allowed.

Negan trails his thumb lightly over the scar, the hole, and Carl grimaces, not because it hurts but because it feels too personal. He hates it when Negan studies his eye, his flaw, but he’s never done it like this before. He asked him once, right at the beginning, if he could touch it. Carl never got a chance to answer. He didn’t ask this time, just took, and Carl is worried what else he might take.

Negan shifts forward, closing the gap between them. Carl can tell what’s coming and he tenses but he doesn’t move, doesn’t fight it.

“Don’t,” he breathes as Negan’s closes in on him, head lifting from the pillow.

Negan presses a kiss against his scar, lips brushing gently against the ragged, ruined flesh, and Carl whimpers, squeezing his good eye closed.

“It’s gross,” he says, voice weak. He feels queasy.

“It’s you,” Negan counters. “Own it.”

Carl still remembers looking in that mirror for the first time after it happened, unwrapping his bandage and seeing the mess that was underneath. He stared, feeling so disconnected from it, like he was looking at somebody else’s war wound, somebody else’s bad fortune. He’s never quite been able to connect with what he saw in the mirror though.

He replaced the bandage and he didn’t look at it again, didn’t show it to anybody else, hid it underneath layers of gauze like he hid the rest of his identity under all those boy clothes. It wasn’t until Negan made him take his bandage off that day, wouldn’t let him put it back on, that he was forced to see it, to face up to it. He wears his hair over it when he can, never draws attention to it, but he’s gotten used to it being there. It doesn’t make him feel so exposed anymore. Sometimes he forgets that he’s different.

He feels a tear slide down his face and Negan wipes it away, crushing their mouths together. Carl meets him with the same ferocity, grabbing hold of him, all teeth and tongues and bruising mouths. He’s needy, needy for validation, needy for affection in whatever guise it comes.

“You’re mine,” Negan tells him hotly. “I look after what’s mine.”

Carl nods his head, panting. He believes it.

“You ever need anything, you come to me,” Negan goes on.

The words are on the tip of Carl’s tongue but he still doesn’t know if he dares. He has to be brave. He has to prove that he’s listening.

“Where do you get all those things from?” he asks. They’re not things that would usually be found on supply runs but Negan seems to come by them so easily, leaves them in Carl’s room with regularity.

“My wives have got all kinds of shit up there,” Negan responds. “It’s a real Aladdin’s cave.”

Carl frowns, feeling guilty. “You took all those things from the girls?”

“They’re good at sharing,” Negan says, a suggestive edge to his voice. “Don’t worry, they don’t expect any of it back. They’re swimming in riches upstairs, they’re not missing it. I know you don’t have much, I wouldn’t take any of it off you. That’s yours.”

Carl nods his head, and he should say thank you but his mind is already on what comes next, on the words he so desperately wants to say. It feels ungrateful to suggest that everything he has isn’t enough though.

“Well,” Negan says, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Carl. “I’m going to take a shower. Wash all your come off me. Ah, to be young again. You are just filled to the brim.”

“Can-” Carl begins, spluttering the word out in panic, knowing it might be his only chance, that the door could close when Negan leaves the room.

Negan stops, turns back to face him. “What’s that?”

Carl feels himself blush and he can’t quite meet Negan’s eyes, Negan who is towering over him again, and he wants to rewind but he let the thoughts consume him and now he’s just going to have to bite the bullet.

“Can I have some panties?” Carl asks, bracing himself to be humiliated, made fun of.

“Sure,” Negan responds easily.

Carl looks up at him, unable to believe that it could possibly be that easy.

“Anything else?” Negan asks.

“Uh…” Carl stares at him dumbly. This is not how he expected this to go and he feels so totally knocked off balance. “Not lace,” he says. “Please. Lace trim is okay, but not all lace.”

Negan nods. “Okay.”

Carl keeps staring at him, still waiting for the jokes to come at his expense, but Negan just swings his legs back around, getting to his feet.

“You think of anything else, you just let me know,” Negan tells him, wrapping a towel around his waist as he walks around to Carl’s side of the bed. “I provide for my wives,” he says, leaning over Carl. “Are you my wife?”

Carl feels something wash over him; acceptance and, frankly, arousal. He nods his head. “Yes, please.”

Negan bends over him, brushing their lips together, a tease. “Good,” he says, a sparkle in his eye before he leaves Carl in more of a mess than the orgasms did.

*

The next day when Carl returns to his room after breakfast he sees a selection of panties spread over his bed. He smiles to himself, locking the door and going over to take a closer look. There’s all different colours and patterns, some with lace trim, some with little bows. He picks each one up in turn, feeling the material, looking at the shape, imagining it against his flesh. It’s a little overwhelming and he has no idea where to start.

Eventually he picks out a pair of baby blue satin panties with a white lace trim. He’ll get to wear them all in the end, there’s no rush. The thought makes him feel giddy.

He sits on the bed, unlaces his boots, kicks them aside. His jeans and boxers come off in one go and he leaves them in a heap on the floor, sliding the blue panties up his legs. He settles them in place, adjusting them a couple of times to try and make them sit right, and then looks down at himself. It’s not quite how he imagined it and he tries not to be discouraged but he looks like a boy. He looks like a boy wearing girl’s panties. He looks like a joke.

He sticks a hand inside them, adjusting his cock, trying to tuck it between his legs, but they still don’t sit quite right. He moves over to his desk, adjusting the shaving mirror to try and get a look at himself, but it’s so small that he can’t really get a sense of what he looks like.

He gazes down at himself again, the way the material stretches over him, the bumps that shouldn’t be there. It was never going to be perfect, not like the images he carries around inside his head. He’s had to make peace with that for a long time now.

With a sigh he walks over to his clothes on the floor, picking up his boxer shorts. He considers them for a moment, they’re what he should be wearing, but he feels too far removed from that person now. He feels like he’s stuck in the middle, neither one thing or the other, and it’s a lonely place to be.

He tosses the boxers aside, can’t bring himself to put them on. Instead he pulls his jeans up over his panties, letting himself get accustomed to them. Maybe it will just take a little time before they feel totally right. He can already appreciate the way his jeans sit against them, it feels much more natural than the bunched up material of his boxers. It feels sleeker, streamlined, good. He just wished they looked that way.

He puts the rest of the panties in his chest of drawers, lacing up his boots. Before he leaves he does a final check. Nothing girly left out. A boy’s room. If anyone looks in here, they wouldn’t know.

He walks up the stairs, so aware of every step, of the way he moves, of the way he wants to move. He steps too heavily on the concrete stairs, overcompensating, everything feeling off balance. Sherry’s bedroom door is open and Carl knocks on it, peering inside. She’s reclined on the bed, flicking through a magazine. She looks bored. She always looks bored.

“Can I come in?” Carl asks.

“Sure,” she responds. “Do you want a _Cosmo_? They’re full of weird and wonderful sex advice.”

“No thanks,” he says, sitting down on the stool at the vanity table, facing her. “I already have amazing sex.”

She gives a little breath of laughter, looking back down at her magazine. “Tell me about it.”

Carl considers her. He’s never had anything to compare Negan to, nothing but his own hand and he never really knew what to do with that, never felt comfortable enough with his own body to do much, but Sherry, he assumes, is experienced. It’s not something they’ve ever talked about but she was married, she has at least something to compare this to.

“You too?” he asks.

Sherry looks up at him and shrugs. “He’s a bastard but he knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s not that much of a bastard,” Carl says. “Not really.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sherry says, amused and sad and condescending all at once. “You’re special. You don’t get it like the rest of us. You’re his pet project.”

Carl frowns at that. Project? Does that mean this is just some game to Negan, something he can win at? Is he really supportive of what Carl is going through or is he actively trying to turn him into something? Carl lets himself be led but that’s only because he has no idea where he’s going. He wants someone who’s going to encourage him on his journey, not someone who’s going to shape him for his own advantage.

He watches Sherry as she reads her girly magazine and he thinks it can’t be the worst perspective to get on the world.

“Can I look at one of those actually?” he asks.

“Knock yourself out,” Sherry replies, picking one up from the pile by her bed and tossing it over to him.

He catches it, turning on the stool so that he’s facing the vanity table, putting the magazine down in front of himself. He reads the cover first, every word, all the stories that he’ll find inside, wanting to take in all of it, not wanting to miss a thing.

As he opens the magazine he looks at Sherry in the mirror and he feels removed from her, maybe removed enough to have this conversation. They talk about it sometimes, Carl stilted and awkward, Sherry blasé, and it helps for this to be somewhat normalised, for her to not see him as a freak, but he’s never been able to draw any conclusions. He’s never been able to work himself out.

He tries to imagine what his life would be like if none of this ever happened, if he had a normal life, or as normal as he could get inside his fucked up head. If he had the internet, the support groups, all the information right there at his fingertips. If he could go into shops and buy anything he wanted, if he could order it on the internet and get it delivered to his door. If he had all the options.

It always ends up coming back to his life though, his tiny life, the suburbs, his parents, all those expectations. His dad always wanted Carl to follow in his footsteps, he knows that. Carl wanted that too, or wanted to want it, wore the hat every day since it was given to him and tried so hard to be the boy that Rick wanted him to be. He could never live up to it though. He doesn’t have it in him.

It’s both easier and not easier now that he’s away from Rick. It’s been too long and he knows Rick must be worried, must be scheming, must think he’s some kind of prisoner here. Carl is certain he could walk out of that door any time, that Negan wouldn’t stop him. He’s even more certain that there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be than here right now.

“People have surgery?” Carl asks, the bluntness of it disorientating, as though he’s dropped down in the middle of a conversation. It was something they touched on last time, something Carl hasn’t been able to get his head around, something that he suddenly finds himself obsessed with.

“Sometimes,” Sherry responds.

“Sometimes?” Carl asks. He doesn’t know what answer he was looking for but that wasn’t enough.

“There’s no right answer, Carl,” Sherry says. “Some people fully transition with surgery and hormones and some people just dress as the gender that feels right.”

“Transition,” Carl repeats. It gives him images of caterpillars turning into butterflies. He wants to be a butterfly.

“There’s a lot of in between,” Sherry tells him. “You shouldn’t beat yourself up over it. Do what feels right to you.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Carl says sadly, staring down at the glamourous women in the magazine in front of him. “I hate what I see in the mirror.”

“Even with all your makeup on?” Sherry asks. “With your clothes?”

“It doesn’t change what’s underneath,” Carl says.

Sherry considers him for a moment, Carl can see her watching him in the mirror but he doesn’t look back. He turns another page, blinking his watery eye to see clearly.

“You think you’d have the surgery?” Sherry asks.

“I don’t know,” Carl responds. “I think about how permanent it is and how I dress to my audience and I wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. I’d just be one thing. I couldn’t hide it.”

“You shouldn’t hide it,” Sherry tells him. “Be whoever you want.”

Carl looks up at her in the mirror, giving her a little smile, and he wants to be grateful but half of the problem is that he doesn’t know what he wants and the other half is he’s certain he could never have it.

They go back to reading their magazines and Carl absorbs himself in the little world in front of him, pretending it’s for him. This is what girls his age would be presented with. This is an insight into something he feels so distant from. Maybe if he can just pretend for long enough he can open up some locked up part of himself and work out exactly what he wants. It’s a long shot but he’s willing to try anything at this stage.

He's so engrossed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice Negan in the doorway until that dark chuckle rolls into the room and Carl feels his cheeks flush, his body tensing.

“Well, isn’t this lovely,” Negan says lazily. “Am I interrupting book group? You about to do each other’s makeup?”

“Did you want something?” Sherry asks pointedly.

“Yeah,” Negan responds, eyes scanning hungrily over her. He grins slowly. “You downstairs with your panties off.”

Sherry stops just short of an eye roll but it’s clearly implied as she climbs off the bed, wordlessly walking past him out of the room.

“Atta girl,” he calls after her. He turns back to Carl who stares up at him, unsure what to expect. Negan frowns. “Listen, kid, if you’re going to be looking at me like that then this really isn’t going to work.”

“Like what?” Carl asks.

“All pouty and jealous and rejected,” Negan says. “You’re not a special snowflake, it’s a fucking harem. Do you know what that word means?”

“Yes,” Carl says indignantly. He knows because Sherry told him.

“It means I love a lot of different things and I’m going to enjoy all of them,” Negan says. “It’s nothing personal, kid. But you do need to accept it.”

“I don’t care who or what you put your dick in,” Carl tells him, turning back to his magazine.

“Is that right?” Negan asks, the amusement clear in his voice. “See, the thing about Sherry, she huffs and she puffs but she’s wet as soon as I look at her. Probably wriggling around on my bed right now, waiting for me. She is always ready to pop, that girl. I guess you two have that in common. Sometimes all you want is a hot, wet cunt though.”

Carl’s not sure exactly what part of Negan’s disgusting speech gets to him, whether it’s Negan objectifying Carl’s only friend or whether it’s the unfair comparison, but he lifts his head up, glaring darkly at him.

“You can tell Sherry that name she called you earlier, she was right.”

Negan laughs. “Oh, were you two gossiping about me?” he asks. “That is so cute.”

Carl sighs, looking back down at his magazine. Negan is just trying to get a rise out of him. Carl feels more irritated about the fact that he bothered to stick up for him earlier.

Negan moves into the room, coming to stand by Carl’s side. “How many pretty things are you wearing under your clothes today?”

Carl doesn’t respond, stares defiantly down at his magazine.

“I know, I know, it’s not for me,” Negan says. “I’m just showing an interest. I’m being supportive. I do give a shit, even if I’m about to go fuck another woman.”

“Go fuck her then,” Carl says, and he knows he sounds petulant, sounds like he cares. He does and he doesn’t.

He doesn’t mind sharing Negan, he doesn’t think he’d want that responsibility on his own and it feels good to be a part of something. He feels accepted. But he’s fragile today, feels like last night, the panties left in his room this morning, he feels like that meant something. That connection feels frayed already and it shifts the way Carl thinks about himself.

He looks at himself in the mirror, really looks, his baby blue eye, his cute little nose, his dainty features, the ugly truth that is the hole in his head. _Own it._ He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know if he wants any of it.

“You like this set up?” Negan asks.

Carl frowns, his reflection frowning back at him, offering him no answers.

“Duly noted,” Negan says and Carl looks up at him, feeling like he blacked out for part of the conversation, unable to connect the dots. “I’ll see you later,” Negan tells him. “Enjoy your _Cosmo_.”

He watches Negan leave the room and then looks down at his magazine. He feels like he has a lot to learn. He picks it up and then moves over to the bed, scooping up the whole pile in his arms and taking them back to his room, locking the door.

He spends all morning reading them one after the other, cover to cover. He doesn’t relate to much. He likes the fashion pages, likes the outfits, the accessories, the makeup tips. Everything else, the articles on relationships, the interviews with celebrities that ask the most inane questions, the advice pages that he wants to take on board but he can’t imagine any real person even asking these questions, all of it just makes him more confused than ever. None of it appeals to him, but he can’t imagine it being relevant to any other girl he knows either.

There’s a knock at the door and Carl scrambles up, collecting the magazines and shoving them under the bed like he’s hiding porn. He opens the door to see Negan standing there with a grin on his face, a large mirror in his arms that reflects Carl back at himself. It’s a little disorientating.

“You want this?” Negan offers.

“Uh, yeah,” Carl responds. “Thanks.”

He moves out of the way, lets Negan into the room. He watches as Negan places the mirror down on his desk, an approximation of Sherry’s dressing table, albeit a much plainer version. It still makes Carl feel giddy. He can already imagine dressing up in front of it.

Negan walks over to the door, closing it. It changes the air in the room, making everything feel charged. They’ve never been in here with the door closed before. New territory.

“Sit down,” Negan tells him, gesturing to the desk. “I’ve got something else for you.”

Carl does as he’s told, sitting on the little wooden chair, looking at himself in the mirror. The light isn’t as good in here as it is upstairs but it will do. He watches in the mirror as Negan comes to stand behind him, reaching his hand into his pocket. He pulls a necklace out, leaning forwards and draping it over Carl’s chest, fastening it in place behind his neck. It’s delicate, silver, a transparent jewel dangling from it. It’s beautiful. Carl leans towards the mirror, getting a closer look, goosebumps rising up on his flesh.

“You like?” Negan prompts.

“I love it,” Carl responds, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Thank you.”

“Well, diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” Negan says offhandedly.

Carl looks down at himself, picking the necklace up between his thumb and finger, inspecting it. “This is a diamond?”

“Only the best for my girls,” Negan says. “I provide.”

_Girls._ The word hits Carl deep but he tries not to react. He wants to be able to take it for granted. He wants it to be his normal.

“You can tuck it under your shirt,” Negan says. “That way you can always wear it. Always remember who you are.”

Carl looks at himself in the mirror again, arranging the necklace to fall against his shirt, his grubby boy shirt. A little bit of sparkle. He likes the idea of always having that with him.

“Where’s all your shit?” Negan asks, looking around.

Carl looks up at him. “What?”

“All the stuff I give you,” Negan says. “Why is it hidden?”

“In case anyone comes in here,” Carl responds, looking at him like he’s crazy. “I can’t have those things.”

“Of course you can,” Negan tells him. “I gave them to you.”

“I’m not supposed to have them,” Carl says.

“Kid, no one’s coming in here,” Negan states. “They know who you are. If they don’t respect you because you’re with me then they’re shit scared of you because they know you’re good with a machine gun. No one is messing with you.”

“You think?” Carl asks warily.

“You have a reputation,” Negan assures him. “You’re a badass.”

Carl smiles to himself. He likes being seen as strong, as brave, as capable. They’re qualities he knows aren’t exclusively masculine so he doesn’t mind embodying them.

“Besides, I don’t tolerate that shit,” Negan goes on. “Stealing is unacceptable. Going through other people’s stuff is just not on. We have a code. They know what happens if they go against that. No one is coming in here.” He opens up the desk drawer to reveal Carl’s makeup stash as though he knew all along it was there. “You can put this stuff out. Make yourself at home.”

He walks towards the door and then stops at the last second, spinning back around. “You’re wearing those panties, right?”

Carl feels himself falter, looking up from his makeup. He could lie or refuse to answer but he finds he doesn’t really want to. “Yeah,” he admits.

Negan nods, smiling. “That makes me very happy,” he says, reaching for the door again. “You look after that diamond. As long as you wear that you belong to me. Wherever I am. Wherever you are.”

Carl nods. A peace offering. A reassurance. A commitment. “I get it.”

“I know you do,” Negan responds. “You’re smart.” He opens the door, stepping into the hall. “I’ll catch up with you later, kid.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Carl puts on his favourite silk top, matching it with white panties with little bows on them. He stands to the side of the mirror as he brushes his hair, not ready to see yet, not sure how he’ll feel about it when he does. He opens up his drawer and takes out a lipstick, a deep pink colour. He can put that on without looking at himself. Anything else would be a disaster.

He turns to the opposite wall and walks towards it, standing with his back to the mirror. He looks down at himself. The clothes are so pretty, falling against his skin, everything he wants to be. He adjusts his dick in his panties, tries his best to make it disappear, and then he finally turns around to face himself.

He’s never seen what he looks like dressed up before. He’s seen little parts of the puzzle, whatever small part of himself fit into the reflection of the shaving mirror at any moment, but he’s never seen the whole, the big picture. It’s him but it’s not him and it takes him a long time to really comprehend what he’s looking at.

He doesn’t feel like such a fraud when he sees everything together, when he acknowledges how it makes him feel. These clothes aren’t made for this body but that seems almost like a technicality because he knows that he belongs in these clothes.

He lets himself take it all in, the white fabric, the beautiful little design touches, the diamond against his chest, the pink lips, the hair that’s grown even longer now, falling down past his shoulders, a slight curl to it. It all fits together, compliments one another. It’s more than he ever dreamed he’d see looking back at him in the mirror.

He touches his lips, the flush of his cheeks making it look like he’s wearing blusher. He moves his hand away, touches the diamond on his necklace instead, moves it with his finger so that it glints in the light. The sparkle makes him calm, makes him feel worthy. He trails his hand down his clothes, fingers catching on the fabric, watching it shift against his body, his flat body, but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful. He traces a finger along the waistband of his panties, touches the little fabric bows, and when his eye slides back up to his face he’s smiling, happy, proud, an expression he doesn’t recognise but one he wants to see looking back at him again and again.

Seeing himself so completely makes the imperfections of his body pale in comparison to how far he’s come, how lucky he is, how free.

He grabs his T-shirt, putting it on over his camisole, pulling his jeans up over his panties. He laces up his boots and on instinct picks up the lipstick from the desk, going to put it away. He stops himself, closing the drawer and placing the lipstick deliberately back on the desk. He’s allowed to have this. It belongs to him and he doesn’t have to hide it.

He still rubs it off before he leaves the room, leaving just a hint of colour behind. This isn’t for anyone else. He doesn’t have to share. Not unless he wants to.

He walks down the corridor, his body moving fluidly in a way he doesn’t feel like it has before. He feels like he’s walking on air. When he gets to Negan’s door he doesn’t knock meekly but bangs his fist against it.

“Come in,” Negan calls from within.

Carl opens the door, sliding into the room and closing it behind himself. Negan is sat on the sofa, looking through a folder, barely glancing up at Carl as he comes into the room.

“What do you want, kid?”

Carl feels a dint to his confidence but fuck timing, Negan can work to his schedule for once. He crosses the room, walking around the table and kneeling on the floor by Negan’s feet. Negan looks down at him, pushing his tongue out from between his teeth, considering him.

“You look pretty on your knees,” he finally says. “But I’m really in the middle of something here so it’s gonna have to wait.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Carl tells him. He reaches down, tugging at the waistband of his jeans, revealing the top of this panties, the little fabric bow popping out. He covers them back up again, pulling his shirt down, smiling at Negan. “I got dressed in front of the mirror this morning. I liked it.”

“Well, yeah, I’d love to see you get dressed up like that too,” Negan agrees. He looks down at Carl’s jeans. “Can I get another look at those panties?”

“No,” Carl tells him. “Limited offer only. You should pay more attention.”

Negan looks up at him, raising his eyebrows, clearly not expecting Carl to be so confident. “Okay,” he says, turning back to his folder.

“But I could suck your dick,” Carl offers.

“I’m busy,” Negan tells him.

“You can still read that while I do it,” Carl says.

Negan sighs, placing the papers down in his lap. “I have shit to do, kid,” he says. “I have a whole hell of a lot of people depending on me here. I have inventories to check, I have people not pulling their weight, I have communities that need a little visit from me and Lucille if these numbers are anything to go by. I can’t just sit and pretty myself up all day and read _Cosmo._ So how about when I’m ready to stick my dick in one of your holes, I come call for you.”

Carl’s face goes dark, his teeth gritted together. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not fair,” Negan agrees. “I work so hard here and still people need telling. It just never ends, Carl. I’m working myself to the bone for these people. Life is just not fair.”

Carl glares at him. “I don’t have anything else to do all day because you won’t let me do anything else,” he points out. “You took my knife. You won’t let me have a weapon. You won’t let me do anything.”

“You do plenty,” Negan tells him. “Every king needs his concubines.”

Carl frowns. He doesn’t even know what that word means but he tries not to let it stall his indignation. “You’re being sexist,” he spits out.

Negan straight up laughs in his face at that. “ _You_ are gonna accuse me of being sexist? Do you have any idea how absurd that sounds right now?”

“Just because I have a dick that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a sexist asshole,” Carl tells him. “You think girls can’t fight? You think they’re not good for anything but fucking?”

“I never said that,” Negan dismisses. “Just not my wives. That’s not their job. _I’m_ their job.” He looks down at Carl pointedly. “And you put yourself there. You’re the one on my floor, kneeling at my feet. I never asked you to do that, Carl. That’s all on you. That’s what you _want._ ”

Carl takes a deep breath, getting to his feet and towering over Negan, looking down at him defiantly. “I’m a good fighter. You know I’m a good fighter. Put me on guard duty. Let me do something.”

Negan purses his lips together, looking like he’s considering it, and Carl feels like it might be now or never.

“You can trust me,” he says. “I wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t. Give me a gun. Let me defend this place.”

“You? A gun?” Negan asks incredulously. “I saw your dartboard, kid, you are no sharp shooter. No way you’re getting a gun.”

“I managed to kill your men, didn’t I?” Carl responds.

“Yeah, you did,” Negan agrees. “Is that really what you want to be reminding me about right now?”

Carl edges closer to him, making himself a little taller. “Why? Do I make you nervous?”

“Me? No,” Negan responds. He reaches out to his side, fingering the top of his baseball bat propped up against the sofa. “But Lucille’s getting a little nervy and I know you don’t want to upset her.”

Carl stares at him, hands curled into fists, and he knows he needs to stand down, knows how bad this could get if he keeps pushing, but he doesn’t want to be seen as less than just because he identifies as a girl. He can be pretty and still do everything he used to do. He doesn’t have to compromise himself to fit in with somebody else’s archaic beliefs of gender stereotypes.

Negan can clearly see the edge come away from Carl’s mood and he nods to the sofa beside him. Carl tries to fight it but he sags down into the seat beside Negan, not quite able to meet his eyes. Negan lets go of Lucille, reaching out for the side of Carl’s face instead. Carl closes his eye, leans into the touch.

“I wouldn’t accept that shit from anyone else, I won’t accept it from you,” Negan tells him, his voice kind but firm.

Carl opens his eye to look at him. “I can be useful,” he insists. “Let me be useful.”

“I’ll think about it,” Negan responds and Carl knows that’s all he’s going to get right now. He sighs, feeling deflated, all the fight going out of him. “Can I get on with my work now?” Negan asks. “Tantrum over?”

“Yeah,” Carl replies, going to get up.

“Wait,” Negan tells him. “We just had our first fight as husband and wife. We gotta kiss and make up before I can let you leave.”

It shouldn’t charm Carl as much as it does but a little smile quirks up the corners of his mouth. He lets Negan guide him in, their lips brushing together, and he waits, waits for the bruising intensity he’s used to, but Negan just kisses him gently, chastely, until every hair on Carl’s body is standing on end, feeling so pliable Negan could do anything to him. When Negan’s tongue finally slides over Carl’s bottom lip Carl moans, opening too eagerly, wanting to be devoured, but Negan pulls away, using his hands to bow Carl’s head down before placing a kiss on his forehead.

He lets go of Carl, picking up his folder and leaving Carl feeling untethered, like he might just fly off into space.

“Off you go,” Negan tells him, not looking up.

Carl gets to his feet, crossing the room slowly, feeling unsteady as he navigates the furniture. As he gets to the door he turns around, looking at Negan.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal,” he says. “If you try I’ll just jump straight back off.”

Negan looks up at him, something that Carl can’t read on his face. “I believe you,” he says.

“Good,” Carl tells him, turning and leaving the room.

He walks down the corridor, resisting the urge to retreat to his own room, instead heading downstairs. Everyone is busy, getting on with their jobs, earning their points. Carl knows he’s lucky to have never needed to do that, to have had everything handed to him so easily. Everything he’s asked of Negan he’s given him, every piece of silk, every pretty little thing, and Carl took the trade off and did everything that was expected of him in return.

He’s always known his place here. When he returned with Negan, when he made the decision to leave Alexandria, he wasn’t a prisoner but he wasn’t a member of the community either. He accepted that he couldn’t have a weapon, accepted that he was going to be watched and mistrusted until he proved himself.

When Negan kissed him that first time Carl got the impression that he was doing it just to see if he could. Carl never fought it. He craved it. He used Sherry and the harem to explore a side of himself he thought he’d never be able to and he took everything Negan offered him, fell into the role, tried to believe that he was as worthy of it as the other wives.

Carl’s whole life has been in transition so much, so many new things to get used to, that sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where the longing comes from. He walks up to the edge of the railing, looks down at everyone, and he remembers standing here with Negan the first day he ever came here, watching everyone kneeling and being so completely in awe. That power spoke to him.

He’s up in the ivory tower now but he knows how far down the pecking order he really is. He doesn’t want to sit back and let things happen around him. He doesn’t want to be seen as weak and incapable and in need of protection. Negan belittling him for doing only what he’s allowed to do feels like the worst kind of injustice. He’s been through too much to let this be his life without question.

He’s aware of movement outside and he heads out, seeing Negan’s men readying one of the trucks, gearing up, getting ready for some kind of mission. He feels nostalgic. It’s been so long since he’s been outside these walls. It’s been so long since he’s had to survive. He’s not trying to romanticise it, he knows how brutal it is out there, but that’s the reality of the world they live in. He wants to have it all, the supply runs that get his blood going, somewhere safe and secure to come back to, but he knows that’s not how it works.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be outside,” Simon tells him as he heads past him towards the truck.

“What? I’m not allowed in sunlight now?” Carl bites back.

Simon looks over his shoulder at him, clearly amused. “Just some friendly advice, kid.”

Carl follows them, standing at the edge of the fence and watching them load up. There’s a rifle leaning against the fence and Carl moves over to it, picking it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Negan’s right, he couldn’t count on getting a decent shot. Maybe he is useless now.

Simon walks over to him, silently holding out an expectant hand. Carl looks up at him and Simon tilts his head, an expression on his face that says _don’t make me ask._ Carl hands over the gun.

“That’s a good boy,” Simon says, turning back to the truck.

The words bristle at Carl, though Simon can’t possibly know that. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“Out,” Simon responds, climbing up into the cab of the truck.

Carl leans against the fence as he watches them leave, the truck disappearing into the distance, nothing but the groans of walkers around him. He looks over at them, tethered to the fence, and he knows how his fate could have gone when he walked into this place. They’re a warning, more for the people inside these walls than outside.

There’s a cruelty to treating their dead like this and Carl knows it’s all about revenge, control. No one crosses Negan. No one is allowed to leave. He wonders if he would still be able to go, with this diamond around his neck. He was so sure of it before, he came here on his own terms, but Negan has invested so much in him now. He’s a work in progress. He’s sure Negan will want to reap the rewards.

Carl wants to see it through too, wants everything Negan has to offer, but he won’t let it turn him into a second rate citizen. He needs a sense of purpose beyond being a pretty little thing for Negan. He needs to be a person, not a stereotype.

He turns back towards the building, glancing at the men on guard duty as he heads back inside. He knows that it’s a boring, thankless job interspersed with danger and blood and gore, but he’d still rather be there in the sun right now than up in the tower.

He takes the stairs slowly, feeling the cold seep in on his trek up the shadowy stairwell. He places a hand inside his T-shirt, touching the silk of the camisole, reminding himself of his motivation. He could never be like this at home. He could never be like this around the people who expected him to grow up into a man. He remembers the conversation with Sherry, the different parts of himself that he shows off for different audiences, and he didn’t realise at the time how he was still only ever being a fraction of himself.

When he gets to Sherry’s room she’s stood at her wardrobe, sorting through clothes. She barely glances up at him when he comes into the room, hovering by the doorway.

“I stole all your magazines,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Keep them,” she dismisses.

Carl watches her as she pulls things out of her wardrobe, pretty dresses and lingerie, looking at each item before returning it. “Are you meeting Negan?” he asks. Negan who was apparently too busy to acknowledge Carl’s existence.

“No,” Sherry says, picking out another dress.

Carl glances behind himself, checking the hallway is empty. “Are you meeting Dwight?” he asks quietly.

Sherry gives him a look. “He wouldn’t be worth this much effort. And I’m not stupid. No one’s getting hurt because of me.”

“Then what are you doing?” Carl asks.

Sherry sighs, hanging the dress back up. “Killing time.” She gestures to the wardrobe. “Do you want any of this?”

Carl looks at it longingly before shaking his head. “I don’t think I’m supposed to take things. I think I have to wait until he lets me have them.”

“Yeah, well, he loves being withholding so don’t get your hopes up,” Sherry responds, closing the wardrobe door and moving over to the bed. “What’s going on with you?”

Carl shrugs, sitting at the vanity facing her. “You really act like you hate being with him.”

“It is what it is,” Sherry responds. “I survive. Dwight survives. We don’t have bad lives this way.”

“There’s more to life than survival,” Carl says. “Don’t you get bored up here?”

“I could pull my own hair out for something to do,” Sherry tells him. “But it’s better than the alternative. There’s always worse.”

“What if it’s already worse?” Carl asks.

Sherry studies him for a moment. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” Carl dismisses.

“Really?” Sherry asks sceptically. “Because yesterday you were up here telling me how he wasn’t a bastard.”

“That was yesterday,” Carl shrugs. “And I never called him a bastard.” He turns towards the vanity, picks up a lipstick and plays with it. “Don’t you hate being treated like you’re made of glass?” he asks.

“If I was made of glass I would have shattered by now,” Sherry responds.

“I don’t want to feel like I’m stuck,” Carl says. “I don’t want to feel like I don’t have a choice. Like I’m two dimensional. Like I can’t do anything.”

“What do you want to do?” Sherry asks.

Carl replaces the lid to the lipstick, places it back on the vanity. He looks at Sherry in the mirror. “Don’t you ever miss being out there? Living?”

“I thought I did,” Sherry says. “Maybe I do. But I can’t. This is what I chose. If I have to be anywhere in this compound then I want to be here. I know exactly what’s going on from here and I can influence what he does. I’ve learned how to play the game, Carl. You have to learn too if you want to make it.”

Carl shakes his head, turning to face her. “I don’t want to play a game. I want to be worth something.”

“I think you might be in the wrong line of work then,” Sherry tells him.

Carl sighs, sagging back against the vanity table. “I asked him if he’d let me fight.”

Sherry laughs. “I can guess how well that went down.”

“Why is that such a ridiculous idea?” Carl asks indignantly. “I’m a good fighter. Everyone here underestimates me, you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“You’re adorable,” Sherry says. “And you have one eye. And you’re wearing women’s underwear right now, right?”

Carl feels his cheeks heat, giving her a defiant look. “Maybe,” he admits. “None of that means I can’t fight.”

“But you wanted to be his wife,” Sherry points out. “And that comes with perks but it comes with sacrifices. You have to weigh it up.”

“I want to be with him,” Carl says. “I want this.”

“Then maybe you should have negotiated a little harder before you put that diamond on.”

Carl lifts his hand up, feeling it through the material of his shirt. “I thought girls were allowed to be strong.”

“There’s lots of ways to be strong,” Sherry tells him.

*

At dinner Carl gets his food, wandering through the noisy dining hall and feeling dizzy and disorientated. He’s not in the mood for this and he would take the food upstairs but he’s not sure if he’s supposed to and the last thing he wants to do is rock the boat right now. Rules have to be followed; it’s Negan’s biggest sticking point.

So Carl goes to his usual place on the stairs, tucking himself to the side so that he’s out of the way, balancing his plate on his knee. He’s hunched over, head down, and he’s not even that hungry but if he doesn’t eat now he won’t get anything all night. He’s learnt to eat whenever he gets the chance because he’s gone days without on the road. Always stock up when you can. It’s an instinct he hasn’t been able to get rid of and he’s not sure he’d want to.

He’s aware of people passing him on the way out of the hall but he doesn’t look up, not until a candy bar lands in his lap. He frowns, craning his head back to see Negan standing over him, that self-satisfied grin on his face. He winks at Carl, carrying on up the stairs, and Carl looks down at the candy bar with something like wonder. It’s been so long since he’s had chocolate. His mouth is watering already.

He looks up and sees people on a nearby table looking at him. They’re jealous, angry even, and Carl slides the candy bar into the pocket of his jeans, out of sight, but he knows it’s too late. They all saw. They’re all judging him.

He knows what they must think of him, knows what he would think of someone who came into Alexandria, killed two people and then decided to stay there. It’s the reason he keeps to himself, doesn’t try to mix with anyone. He’s the bad guy, and an incompetent one at that. And now he’s sucking the dick of the man he was trying to kill.

It all feels like a lifetime ago now. The memories of the night in the clearing, of the things Negan did in Alexandria, they’re like shadows in his mind, dark but with no real substance. He can’t touch them. They can’t touch him. Negan is right in front of him, warm and real, and at some point he decided that was enough. That was worth selling his soul for.

He finishes his dinner quickly and leaves the dining hall, trying not to make eye-contact with anyone. He retreats to his room and lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he rests a hand under his T-shirt, on top of his camisole, fingers gently moving back and forth. His head is full but the action is so soothing that he feels like he could fall asleep.

A knock at the door makes him suddenly alert, tugging his T-shirt back down. “Yeah?”

Carl is wary of letting people into his room, even if the only person who ever comes calling for him is Negan who already knows all his secrets, but he doesn’t have the energy to move right now and he has too much apathy to care if someone comes in here and sees his lipstick. Fuck them.

Sure enough, as the door opens, Negan pokes his head inside. “Can I come in?”

Carl nods, watching as Negan closes the door behind himself, grabbing the chair from his desk and placing it by the bed, sitting down.

“You can come on the bed,” Carl tells him, going to shift over.

“I’m not staying long,” Negan dismisses.

Carl’s heart sinks but he tries not to show it. He wouldn’t mind some company. He wouldn’t mind a hug, even if it came with strings attached.

“Did you like your chocolate?” Negan asks, somehow managing to make it sound dirty.

“I’m saving it,” Carl tells him.

“You just love delayed gratification, don’t you, kid,” Negan says, shaking his head, amusement clear in his eyes. Carl doesn’t get it. He must be frowning because Negan rearranges his own features to be more serious. “I just came to tell you I’m going to be away for a few days. I leave first thing.”

“Oh,” Carl says.

“A few visits that are overdue,” Negan explains. “I’ll try to pick you up something pretty while I’m there.”

Carl nods but he doesn’t look at him, doesn’t react like he knows he’s supposed to. Some time apart probably wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world right now, but Carl is suddenly slammed with how co-dependent he’s become. He doesn’t want Negan to go.

“I’m going to do some thinking about you while I’m gone,” Negan says. “Well, other than the thinking I’m going to be doing when I’m jerking off over you.” He looks Carl up and down and then sighs, reaching out and taking hold of his hand, drawing patterns on the back of it with his finger. “You need to do some thinking too.”

“Am I in trouble?” Carl asks instinctively.

“You’re not being punished,” Negan assures him. “You’re not going to be punished. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t mean to shout at you,” Carl says.

“I know,” Negan responds. “And you’re sorry. That’s not going to happen again.”

Carl nods his agreement.

“But you need to work out where you’re at, kid,” Negan tells him. “And I need to work out what I’m going to do with you because you are not going to be satisfied if I just stick you upstairs in a pretty dress and leave you to your own devices.”

Carl looks away and this feels a lot like being in trouble, even if Negan’s tone is kind. This isn’t what Negan signed up for. This isn’t what Negan expects.

“We’re going to work something out,” Negan insists. “You be a good boy while I’m gone. A good girl. Are we calling you that now?”

Carl just shrugs. He has no idea who he is.

Negan leans forward, placing his fingers under Carl’s chin and tilting his head up. “Be good,” he says, leaning down to kiss him.

Carl nods his head, makes a noise of agreement. He can be good. He can be patient. He’s come this far.

*

Carl looks for Negan at breakfast the next day but he knows he won’t be there. If he’s going on the road he’ll set off at first light and Carl couldn’t drag himself out of bed anywhere near that early. He thought about not going down to breakfast at all, eating his chocolate bar in his room and feeling sorry for himself. It wouldn’t have helped though and then he’d have no treat to look forward to. He has a feeling he’s going to need it while Negan’s gone.

He’s supposed to be thinking but he doesn’t want to be alone right now so he climbs the stairs up to the harem and heads to Sherry’s room. She’s laid on her bed apparently wearing nothing but a short, silky robe. It looks so decadent that Carl is jealous before he catches up with himself and realises he’s definitely intruding.

“Sorry,” he says as she looks up at him. “I’ll come back later.”

“It’s fine,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Come in.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Carl says, shaking his head.

“You’re not,” Sherry dismisses. “Trust me, I’d tell you if you were. I’m just having a lazy day. Come be lazy with me.”

Carl sits down at the vanity, trying not to notice how short her robe is, riding up even higher as she shifts, her legs slightly apart. He looks down at his hands. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says somewhat dreamily. “Just completely fucked out.”

Carl swallows. “Oh.” He looks up at her. “Did he come and see you this morning?”

“Last night,” Sherry responds. “You know, when you get him wound up it takes him a long time to come down again. Hours. Hours of beard burn and bruises.”

Carl frowns, panicked thoughts racing around his head. “Me? Did I upset him? I thought we were cool. We made up.”

“You didn’t upset him,” Sherry dismisses. “You make him all… sexually frustrated. He wants to fuck you.”

“He does fuck me,” Carl points out.

“He wants to fuck your while you’re dressed as a girl,” Sherry says pointedly, looking at him like he’s an idiot for not realising it. “It gets him all riled up. Then he takes all that pent up horniness and channels it elsewhere. Last night it was my turn.”

“I’m sorry,” Carl says, his mind still catching up. “I mean, he asked to see, but he never…”

“I’m not complaining,” Sherry assures him. She sits up a little, adjusts her robe to look at the inside of her thigh, red raw. She touches it gingerly with a finger. “I mean, I could do without this. A kinder man might shave before he goes down for that long but I think he likes the idea of leaving something to remember him by. Are we really his if he doesn’t ruin us a little?”

Carl blinks, realising that he’s staring. He meets her eyes. “Oh, uh, I don’t know. I don’t really… I don’t like him doing that.”

“Oral?” Sherry asks, looking puzzled. “Why wouldn’t you take advantage of everything you can get? If he sucks cock anything like he eats pussy then you’re missing out.”

Carl shakes his head. “I don’t like drawing attention to my dick. Kind of ruins the illusion.”

“I guess it’s a little more complicated for you,” Sherry allows.

“It feels good,” Carl says, dipping his head down. “Objectively, physically, the sensations…” He sighs, frustrated. “I wish I didn’t need my dick touching to be able to come. I wish I could just come by being fucked, like a girl. It just makes me feel…”

Sherry laughs and Carl looks up sharply. She’s never laughed at him before, never made fun of him for his confessions. She’s always supported him, drawn more out of him, made him feel at ease with himself.

“What?” he asks edgily.

“No, I’m sorry, it’s just…” She shakes her head, levelling her gaze at him. “That’s not how it works.”

“What?” he asks again.

“Girls don’t come from being fucked,” Sherry tells him. “I mean, some do, but it’s not the standard. The set up’s a bit more complicated than that. A lot more complicated.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, embarrassed by his own ignorance.

“Have you ever even seen a woman’s body?” Sherry asks.

“Why would I have seen a cunt?” he asks back, knowing that his attitude only makes him look smaller and stupider.

Sherry smiles, doing that patronising little head tilt that Carl knows is fuelled mostly by affection. “Is that what he told you to call it?” she asks. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s a vulva and labia and a vagina and a clitoris,” she says. “For a start.” She considers him for a moment before adjusting herself on the bed. “Close the door and come here.”

Carl stares at her like she’s crazy. “Pretty much the first thing you ever said to me is that I’m not allowed to touch you.”

“And you’re not going to touch me,” Sherry responds. “Besides, pretty much the first thing you ever said to me is that I’m not your type, so this shouldn’t be a problem.”

Carl glances at the door but doesn’t move.

“It’s just a biology lesson,” she tells him. “You deserve your fantasies to be as well informed as they can be, if you can’t have the real thing.”

Carl glances at the door again. Sherry makes it sound so reasonable and if Carl’s honest with himself he has no idea about a woman’s body. He always thought that was fine, considering he’s never going to have one, but he does like to pretend, even if only in his own head. He’d like to imagine it accurately, have all the facts in front of him, understand exactly what it is that he craves.

He doesn’t say anything as he gets up to close the door, moving over to sit on the bed by her feet. He can feel himself blushing hot right to the tips of his ears, the warmth spreading over his chest, making sweat prickle at his skin. He doesn’t know where to look, feels like he might forget how to breathe.

“Everything’s really swollen right now,” Sherry tells him as she sits up, reaching for the hem of her robe. “Makes it more pronounced though. You can see the details.”

Carl nods studiously but he can’t help flicking his eyes away as she lifts the robe up over her waist. He can feel her waiting, watching him, and he forces himself to take a breath, turning his gaze back towards her.

The first thing he notices is the extent of the damage to the inside of her thighs, the delicate skin scratched raw by Negan’s beard. Carl finds himself glad Negan doesn’t spend a lot of time down there with him. There’s bruises too where he’s grabbed her, held her. Carl always has a fondness for his own bruises, the little tender spots echoes of where Negan held him down, where he couldn’t get enough, where he needed to devour him, possess him. He takes it as a compliment. Negan doesn’t hold back when he’s passionate about something.

She opens her legs a little wider and Carl can’t help but look then. He doesn’t really know if it’s what he was expecting, he never had a true, clear image in his head, but if anything it’s more real, more organic and flawed than anything he could imagine. He likes that. It somehow makes his own body feel like less of a failure. There’s no such thing as perfection, even if he’s further from it than most.

He notices that she’s shaved too, along the sides, some hair left at the top but it’s neat, Carl assumes trimmed. He knows girls do things like that. He’s often wondered if he was supposed to too. Negan’s never said anything about it but it’s always made him a little self-conscious. His eyes scan back down Sherry’s legs, smooth and shiny, and it only gives him another want.

“Here,” Sherry says, refocussing his attention, and she pulls herself apart, exposing her hole. Carl tries to remember the words she used earlier but they all just ricocheted off his skull and got lost. “That’s what he means when he says cunt,” Sherry tells him. Carl nods, looking away. He knew that much. “That’s only part of the story though. And look.” She tilts her hips back, opening her legs a little wider. “It’s not so far from the hole you use. You can still get most of the same angles.”

“Right,” Carl agrees, looking over across the room as he shifts back.

“Sweetheart, we’re not even halfway done yet,” Sherry tells him.

He looks up at her. “This feels weird.”

“Girls share stuff, it’s not that weird,” she insists.

“Girls show their genitals to each other?” Carl asks incredulously.

“Okay, I’m stretching the limits a bit,” Sherry agrees. “But it’s all in the name of education and body positivity. Look and learn.”

Carl angles his body back towards her but he doesn’t look down.

“I want you to listen to this part,” Sherry says firmly. “Because I can’t come just from being fucked either. That’s not something that makes you less of a girl. All the good nerve endings are up here.”

Carl reluctantly looks as Sherry puts two fingers on herself towards the top of the folds, pulling upwards to highlight the nub that looks swollen and sore.

“If I’m gonna come I need attention here,” Sherry tells him. “Me, him, it doesn’t matter, if no one’s playing with me here it’s not going to happen. Rubbing, massaging, whatever.” She lets go of herself, her body tightening as she shifts, a delicate noise caught in her throat. “And I am still really sensitive from last night.”

Carl nods, looking away. “I should probably go.”

“Do you know what the best part of oral from Negan is?” Sherry asks, her voice going a little faster, getting carried away. “It’s how much he loves it. Enthusiasm is what you want. Someone can go through the motions and even if the motions are good, if they’re not into it they’re only going to do the bare minimum. But Negan…”

Carl looks back at her, the robe draped partway back over hers, a sheen over her skin and a faraway look in her eyes. He should definitely go but she wants to share and Carl really really wants to hear it.

Sherry looks up, meeting him dead in the eye. “Negan will stay there long after the job’s done. And that’s where he focusses. The clitoris. He sucks it and he licks it and, because he’s a bastard, sometimes he bites it. It hurts but it’s exquisite. And he licks inside too, just because he likes it, and because he loves to know how wet he’s making me.”

Carl bites down on his lip in an attempt to stop his mouth hanging open, but that probably looks even worse. _Wet._ Carl’s body doesn’t do that on its own, no matter how good Negan is, and it’s always felt like a failing. Of course Negan would like that it’s so easy with a girl, that he doesn’t have to put the effort in. Or maybe it’s just a different kind of effort.

“But the clit, you should think of it like a tiny dick,” Sherry tells him.

Carl frowns at her. “A tiny dick?”

“It’s all the nerve endings. It’s the good stuff. It’s the part that gets girls off.”

Carl looks down, trying to make sense of it. It sounds wrong but he wants it to be right. He wants their bodies to have enough in common that he can fake it. It’s never going to convince Negan, but if he can convince himself then he can have the kind of sex he wants, can make believe that he’s a girl. If his insides matched his outsides, if only for a handful of delusional minutes, then he wouldn’t have anything to hide.

“He sucks it?” Carl asks, and even if that’s true it’s nothing like a blowjob, but he’s trying to hold onto that thread of hope.

“Oh yeah,” Sherry agrees. “He uses his mouth, lips, tongue, teeth, any way you can think of. And he’ll stay there for three, four orgasms, until my body’s so taut like it’s going to snap and I’m shaking and whimpering and I can’t even beg anymore. And that’s when he’ll decide to fuck me.” She takes a deep breath and sighs, her whole body moving with it. “Yeah, I might need some privacy, kid. Unless you want to see a woman’s orgasm live.”

Carl shakes his head, getting to his feet, and he’s glad his panties are tight enough that his hard on doesn’t tent his jeans, even if it feels somehow wrong.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, not looking at her.

“A body is a body and they’re all different anyway,” Sherry tells him. “Enjoy yours. Let him enjoy it. Trust me, he talks about you, he enjoys it a lot. He has no complaints. And if you give him this, he is going to pay you back like you can’t even imagine.”

Carl nods his head, turning to the door. He turns back to Sherry, unable to stop himself. “He could use this to destroy me.”

“He can’t use it against you if you’re not ashamed of it,” Sherry tells him. “Own it.”

He remembers Negan’s words when he kissed his scar, words meant to empower, and it feels fitting that Sherry should give him the same message. He can’t change this any more than he can grow his eye back so he has to find a way to be okay with it.

*

Carl pulls the magazines out from under his bed, sitting down with them at his desk. Negan’s right, he has a lot of thinking to do, and maybe if he can accept what he wants from being a girl then he can settle into himself and the rest will somehow fall into place. He’s lived so long with life being a struggle, being denied everything he really wanted, that it’s hard to work out what parts of his personality are real.

He opens up the desk drawer and consults one of the makeup tutorials in the magazine, seeing if he has enough of the right things to make it work. He lines them up on his desk and gets to work, carefully following every step, taking his time. His depth perception still sucks, making a hard job even harder, but he’s getting used to it and it’s starting to feel natural, using the little brushes against his skin, working out the right angle against the mirror image of himself. He pulls it off pretty well in the end.

He stares at himself, his feminine features accentuated, and it could be a girl looking back at him. If he didn’t know better, it could be. Sometimes he wishes he could start over, dye his hair and come back to the Sanctuary with a different name and hope that nobody noticed. Would they know? If he walked into a room of strangers like this, in a dress, would anyone be able to tell?

He washes the makeup off, flicking through the magazine and finding a new tutorial to follow. He was working blind before, just playing around with the makeup Negan had given him and trying to make it look good. Having a guide, something to teach him, if not someone, it makes him feel a little less alone and gives him something to focus on. He’s proved to be pretty adaptable the last few years, picking up new skills has kept him alive, there is nothing to stop him from adding this one to his repertoire.

He wastes away most of the day on makeover after makeover, and he wonders if it’s wasteful, putting it all on just to take it off, but it can’t be, not if it helps his confidence, not if it lets him see himself clearly.

That night, in bed, thinking about Negan, his hand reaches for his dick before he pulls it away. He thinks back to Sherry, her body, the way it works. He remembers something he saw in one of the magazines earlier and he gets out of bed to grab it, bringing it back with him. _Self-pleasure tips._ It sounds so pretentious but he’s grateful for any help he can get.

He positions himself on his stomach as instructed, touching the head of his dick like he’s told to touch his clitoris. It feels good, even if the movement’s a little weird and he has to adjust himself a few times. He gets into it, wondering how similar this sensation really is, trailing his other hand down further to his hole. He brushes his fingers over it and he knows this is going to be a problem, no matter how turned on he is. He tries spitting on his hand but it’s nowhere near enough.

Resigned, he climbs from the bed, pulling on his jeans and slipping out of the door. It’s late, there’s no one around, but he still finds himself creeping. When he gets to Negan’s door he listens intently. There’s so sounds inside and so he eases it open, scared of getting caught in there, even though he figures he has more right to be in there than any of Negan’s men would.

When he finds it empty he moves swiftly over to the bed, grabbing the bottle of lube tucked away in the nightstand. He imagines Negan’s hand around it, the slick liquid dribbled onto his fingers, and his cock gives a throb in his pants. He eyes the bed, considering just finishing the job off here, maybe staying for the night. The sheets probably still smell of him.

He knows he’s not supposed to be in here though, knows that some of Negan’s men would just love the opportunity to get him in trouble, take him down a peg or two. He trudges back to his own room, climbing into his narrow bed, and he slicks up his fingers, trying to get the fantasy right.

He practices a lot over the next few days; the makeup, the ways to use his body. He gets more confident with both, figuring out what he likes, what looks good, what feels good. He puts the magazines away and works on instinct, channelling that part of himself that has always been so neatly locked away. He didn’t quite realise how much he was still denying himself until he has no one to hide from, no one else’s opinions to care about. There’s just him and a locked door and everything Negan has gifted him. It all starts to fall into place.

He makes a list, keeps it out on his desk and adds to it whenever he gets a want. There’s little things and big things but all of them feel like milestones to him. It’s freeing, letting his imagination guide him, not holding back.

As he sits down to his desk one day, picking up an eyeshadow pallet, there’s a knock at the door. He glances at the mess of his desk and decides that it’s probably just Sherry, no one else in this place ever wants to talk to him. As he opens the door, he realises he’s wrong, one of Negan’s men stood in front of him. Carl closes the door up to his body, trying to block his view into the room.

“Negan wants to see you,” the man says, sounding incredibly bored.

Carl knows his face must light up. “He’s back?”

“He’s in his room,” the man says, gesturing down the hall.

Carl nods. “I’ll be right there.”

The man shrugs like he could care less and wanders off in the other direction. Carl smiles to himself, turning around and grabbing the list off his desk before rushing down the hall. He knocks on the door, anticipation building in his stomach.

“Come in.”

Carl opens the door, stepping inside the room and closing it behind him. Negan is walking across the room, head tilted back as he swigs from a bottle of beer, and Carl can’t help staring at the way his throat moves as he swallows. He stops walking, turning towards Carl as he takes the beer away from his lips with a satisfied sigh, grinning at Carl.

“Come say hi,” he instructs, beckoning him over.

Carl moves, unable to play it cool, not wanting to. He throws his arms around Negan’s neck, pushes up on his tiptoes, kissing him deeply. Negan’s free arm goes around his waist, holding him steady as he slides his tongue over Carl’s, stealing all of his breath. Carl shifts closer and Negan growls, his arm tightening aggressively, pulling Carl completely off balance and holding all of his weight. Carl moans, feeling like he’s suspended, helpless, completely at Negan’s mercy. It’s a sensation that’s addictive and sometimes it scares him because he doesn’t want to rely on anyone else. You can’t trust them not to disappear one way or another.

Negan bites down on Carl’s lip, pulling away with it still between his teeth, stretching it out. When he finally lets go Carl takes it gently between his own teeth, trying to soothe the hurt.

“That was a nice hello,” Negan says, his voice deep and just a tiny bit wrecked. Carl wants to hear more of it.

Negan takes a swig of his beer, still holding Carl tight against him with his other arm, and then he offers the bottle towards Carl, giving him a questioning look. Carl’s not sure if it’s a trick, lifting his hand slowly in case it gets snatched away. Negan allows him to take it and Carl brings it up to his lips, taking a swallow. He pulls it away, moving his tongue around in his mouth as he tries to identify the flavour. It’s not really pleasant, bitter and malty.

Negan chuckles. “Maybe not,” he says, taking the bottle back off Carl and taking another swallow. “I wanted to give you something,” he tells Carl, loosening his arm so that Carl starts to take his weight back on his own feet. Negan nuzzles close to him, dragging his lips over his cheek before lining his mouth up with his ear. “Go sit down.”

As Negan lets go of him, Carl finds his balance, moving over to sit in one of the seats. He likes the idea of Negan having thought of him while he was gone. He watches him crossing the room, opening up one of his drawers, taking something out and keeping it behind his back as he approaches Carl. He tosses it down on the table where it makes a heavy sound and Carl looks on the glass surface to see his knife in its sheath, the one he was wearing the first day he came here, the one Dwight took away from him.

He smiles, genuine joy. He always loves Negan’s presents, even the ones that aren’t quite right, but this is literally like having a little piece of himself handed back to him, an important part of himself. He leans forward, dropping the screwed up piece of paper he’d forgotten was still in his hand and grabbing the knife instead.

“You’d think I’d just given you the holy grail, the look on your face,” Negan says, going to sit down opposite him.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. It kind of feels like he has. He didn’t realise how much he’d missed this. “Thank you,” he says as he slips it from the sheaf, admiring the long blade, the shiny metal, the sharp edge.

“You’ve earned it,” Negan allows. “You’ve yet to murder me in my sleep, and you’ve had plenty of chances.”

Carl looks up at him. “Did you really think I was going to?”

“Who knows what the fuck goes through your head at any given moment, kid,” Negan responds, downing the remainder of his beer and placing the empty bottle on the table.

Carl sheathes the knife and stands up, sliding it through his belt, moving to get used to the feel of it again. It feels right.

“I signed you up for guard duty too,” Negan tells him. “Got you on a couple of shifts this week, we’ll see how it goes.”

“Seriously?” Carl asks, feeling giddy at the prospect.

“Trial run,” Negan says firmly. “See how you feel about it, see how I feel about it. We’ll take it from there.”

“Sure,” Carl agrees.

“You can go to the armoury at the beginning of your shift, sign yourself out an awesome machine gun, go pose with it and feel cool,” Negan tells him. “But it goes back at the end of your shift. You are not wandering around this place with a machine gun, scaring the shit out of people.”

Carl nods, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Deal.” He looks down at his knife, adjusting it on his belt, and then he can’t contain himself, throwing himself into Negan’s lap and hugging him. “Thank you,” he says earnestly.

“You’re welcome, kid,” Negan responds, his arms going around him.

Carl suddenly catches himself, invading Negan’s personal space, acting needy, things he always tries to avoid. He lifts his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles, blushing as he tries to pull away.

Negan’s arms tighten around him, not pulling him back but not giving him any leverage to leave. “You keep that tight little ass of yours right there,” he tells him. “You can squirm though. Can’t say I mind that.”

Carl relents but it takes him a moment to relax back into it, Negan’s hand stroking up and down his side through his T-shirt. Negan’s leather jacket is cool where it presses against Carl’s arm but his body is warm, so inviting, and Carl presses closer.

“Did you miss me?” Negan asks.

“Yeah,” Carl admits.

“Mmmm,” Negan hums against his neck. “I missed you too.”

Carl smiles and he waits for it to start, for Negan’s hands to wander, or for him to just come out with something crude, an order, and Carl knows that he’d obey in an instant. He can’t wait. He feels the anticipation growing but Negan doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just carries on stroking Carl’s side, staring into space. Carl figures he’s probably tired, who knows what he’s seen and done out there in the past few days. He tries to think of a way to offer something so that Negan might actually accept rather than it feeling like a power grab. It didn’t go so well last time.

“I saw your daddy while I was gone,” Negan tells him, his voice calm and casual. Carl tenses, lifting his head up to look at him. “He was asking about you.”

“Was he mad?” Carl asks reluctantly, not sure he wants the answer.

Negan considers the question for a moment. “He was incredibly calm in the way only a man completely out of his mind with rage can be.”

“Shit,” Carl says, pressing himself closer into Negan as though he can protect him. He hates the thought of Rick suffering, worrying, because of him. He wishes he could explain this, reassure him, but even if he could find the words he knew it would never make sense to Rick. “What did you tell him?”

“I said you were fine,” Negan responds. “I told him you’re healthy, that you’re safe, that you’re settled here. That’s all true enough, isn’t it?”

Carl nods and he can see the look on Rick’s face, the desperation and the anger and the need to protect.

“You should go see him,” Negan states. “Tell him yourself.”

Carl pulls back to look at him. “You’d let me?”

“Do I keep you locked up in the basement?” Negan asks.

Carl shakes his head. “No.”

“I send a truck there once a week,” Negan points out. “You can go anytime you want.”

“But people aren’t supposed to leave,” Carl says.

“People aren’t supposed to take advantage of what I do here and then run off when it doesn’t suit them anymore,” Negan corrects. “Going to pay your daddy a visit is a little different. Besides, he missed the last family dinner, reckon we’re due a do over on that.”

“Did you tell him about us?” Carl asks, his heart beating faster in his chest.

“It is not my business to tell him that,” Negan responds. “I thought you’d probably like to break the news that he’s my father in law yourself. Though I hope you let me be there because I would love to see the look on his face. That would be fucking hilarious.”

Carl feels himself go cold. More versions of himself that can’t ever meet. He doesn’t want to live a fractured life; he’s worked so hard to turn himself into a coherent whole. He reaches down, fingers playing over the sheathed knife, what had felt like the last piece of the puzzle. He can’t see his dad, can’t tell him any of this, and he certainly doesn’t want Negan anywhere near him the next time they do see each other. He’s been putting it off for so long, trying to work himself out first, but it’s starting to feel like that might never happen.

“I’m not pushing for it,” Negan murmurs into his ear before his teeth nip at the lobe.

Carl closes his eye, embraces the sharp sensation, Negan’s breath falling damply against his neck. He doesn’t want to be anywhere but this moment, surrounded by Negan. His arms are still around Carl, cradling him close, fingers bunching up the material of his shirt, of the camisole underneath, as they run lazily over his clothed body.

“You’ll get there when you get there,” he says, his voice all breath.

“Shhhh,” Carl tells him, squeezing his eye closed tighter. He can’t think now, doesn’t want to, can’t handle anything but this.

Negan grazes his teeth over Carl’s neck, pulling the material of his T-shirt and camisole up as one so that he can gets his hand on the flesh beneath, splaying his fingers out in a way that makes Carl feel claimed, owned.

“I don’t like being away from my wives,” Negan says, voice dark and rumbling. “I don’t like not getting laid. It makes me very unpleasant.”

Carl tilts his head, brushing his lips against Negan’s, asking for permission. Negan kisses him, hard and aggressive, fingers digging into Carl’s side. He grabs him closer, adjusting him on his lap, and Carl can feel Negan’s hard cock against his thigh, making him shift his own hips, impatience creeping over his body. Negan slides his hand up inside Carl’s clothes and Carl’s sure he must be able to feel the camisole but he doesn’t react. It makes Carl stumble just enough that he knows he can’t do this. He pulls away apologetically.

“Can I get changed first?” he asks. “I’m…” He trails off, gesturing down at himself.

“If you have to,” Negan responds gruffly.

Carl shrugs, not wanting to say it but not able to give his consent either.

“Or I could just close my eyes and you can get naked,” Negan suggests. “I really don’t care how it happens, it just needs to happen.”

Carl considers it but he craves Negan’s attention, every bit of it, loves the dance of being undressed, of being revealed, unwrapped like present. Besides, the clothes will still be here and he’ll have to put them back on again once they’ve finished. He’s not comfortable with that. Not yet.

“Can I at least get a preview?” Negan asks, sensing his reluctance. “A little tease? Upcoming attractions.”

Carl shakes his head, making a little noise in his throat. He wants to give Negan what he wants, wants the attention, but it’s too much.

“Kid, you’re killing me,” Negan complains.

His fingers trail ever lower down Carl’s torso, stopped by the waistband of his jeans, and he hovers there, dragging back and forth. He lifts his head, looking Carl in the face, watching his expression carefully. Carl can feel himself flushing but he looks back, letting Negan see it all play across his face. Negan dips a finger just below, not far enough to reach his panties but far enough to show his intention. Carl inhales sharply, tries not to squirm. Negan’s presses lower, millimetre by millimetre, waiting for Carl to stop him, and Carl is waiting too but the moment doesn’t come.

Negan’s finger reaches the lace trim of his panties and he follows it around, tracing the line like he’d traced the waistband of his jeans, finger trapped so tightly against him by the denim. It feels so personal, so intimate, and Carl can barely breathe. He watches Negan’s face for the slightest hint of judgement but he can’t find it. He watches the way his eyes go dark and hungry, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and he feels wanted. He feels close to beautiful.

Negan drags his finger out, placing a kiss against Carl’s cheek, and it reminds Carl of the first time they fucked, that tender gesture as Negan pulled his cock out of Carl’s body, leaving him wet and open and wrecked. Emotionally, this is probably on a par.

Negan lets go of him, gesturing for him to get up. As Carl moves away from him on shaky legs, Negan leans forward, picking up the crumpled piece of paper from the table. Carl’s list.

“What’s this?” he asks, unfolding it.

“Oh, uh,” Carl begins awkwardly, watching helplessly as Negan reads it, working it out for himself. “I didn’t know you were already going to give me something,” he says. “And it’s just a wishlist. You told me to think. I wrote down what I was thinking about. I don’t expect you to just give it all to me.”

Negan considers the list, running his tongue thoughtfully over his bottom lip. “There’s nothing here I shouldn’t be able to source.” He gives a nod, looking up at Carl. “I’ll get it for you.”

“You don’t have to get all of it,” Carl insists.

“I’ll get it for you,” Negan tells him firmly, folding the paper up and putting it in his jacket pocket. “Go get changed. Before these blue balls kill me and you won’t be getting anything.”

Carl smiles, nodding as he exits the room. He doesn’t lock his own door when he gets back into his room, just slams it shut and strips off everything he’s wearing. He shoves the panties and camisole under his blankets and doesn’t bother trying to find his boxers before pulling his jeans back on. He’s not even sure where they are anymore. He grabs his pillow, taking out the bottle of lube he stashed there earlier this week, realising now that he has to return it. He pulls his T-shirt on and decides to leave his boots, walking barefoot back to Negan’s room.

Negan’s leather jacket is slung over the back of the sofa, Negan standing in his white T-shirt, and Carl can’t help his eyes scanning over the visible tattoos.

“We good?” Negan asks.

Carl nods, forcing himself to meet his eyes.

“Good,” Negan drawls, stalking towards him.

Carl holds up the bottle of lube. “I borrowed this,” he admits.

Negan takes it off him, frowning at it. “Why? Whose dick have you been sat on?”

“No one’s,” Carl dismisses. “I was just… doing it to myself. Practicing.”

“Oh, really?” Negan leers. “And how did that go?”

Carl shrugs, feeling himself blushing crimson.

“We’re going to talk about that later,” Negan promises, tossing the lube onto the bed before grabbing Carl’s hips. “You’re going to give me every filthy detail.”

He walks Carl backwards towards the bed, his hands sliding down to Carl’s belt, deftly unbuckling it. He pops open the button, slides down the zipper, his eyebrows raising when he sees the lack of underwear.

“We’ve got lots of things to talk about later.”

Carl opens his mouth to speak, embarrassed and flustered, but Negan grabs him, picking him up and tossing him onto the bed.

“This first one’s going to go pretty fast,” Negan tells him, climbing on top of his body. “But then we’re going to regroup and it’s going to go so slow for a very very long time. I’m going to need you to bring your stamina A game. You with me, kid?”

Carl nods, his hands going up to pull Negan closer, whimpering as their mouths press together.

*

The next day, laid out on his bed, he wishes he had a silky robe to lounge in like Sherry. Maybe he should have put it on his list.

His body is sore, well used, every muscle aching from the different positions Negan bent him into, the constant strain of pleasure coursing through him. Like Sherry said, totally fucked out. He considers sharing it with her but he doesn’t think he can move.

There’s a knock at the door and Carl groans internally, knowing now that Negan apparently sends messenger boys his way. He casts a glance towards the desk.

“Who is it?”

“Only your ever devoted husband,” comes Negan’s voice through the door.

Carl smiles to himself. “Come in.”

Negan comes into the room, carrying a large box in his arms, kicking the door closed behind him. “I come bearing gifts. I really am the best husband ever.” He puts the box down on the chair, looking over Carl’s desk. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“You said I could keep my things out,” Carl responds, sitting up.

“Yeah,” Negan says, shaking his head. “I thought you might do it in a slightly more orderly fashion than this.”

“I’ll tidy it up,” Carl tells him, moving to get to his feet.

“You stay right there,” Negan tells him, nudging him back down until he’s laid out again. He perches on the edge of the bed, licking his lips as he considers him. “Is there any part of you that doesn’t hurt today?”

Carl shakes his head.

“Yeah, I was pretty damn thorough,” Negan agrees, eyes scanning up and down him. “I think I’ve put you out of commission for a few days.”

“I could give you a blowjob,” Carl offers. He knows he can’t handle being fucked right now, whatever his hormones tell him, but he can do that. He wants to. The way Negan smirks at him, looking so proud of what he’s reduced Carl to, it makes Carl really want to do anything for him.

Negan reaches forwards, running a hand over his cheek before massaging at his jaw. “You’re not a little worn out here?” he asks pointedly.

Carl shrugs, not wanting to admit it, the ache he felt with every bite of his breakfast an echo of last night.

Negan taps him lightly on the cheek twice before pulling away. “Don’t you worry about me, I’m just going to head upstairs and start work on the next one,” he says, getting to his feet. “I don’t think I could ever ruin all of you all at once, but I do enjoy a challenge.” He peers pointedly into the box. “Besides, you have a whole box of pretty things here to play with. I wouldn’t want to distract you from that.”

“Thank you,” Carl says, sitting up again.

“I think I got everything you asked for, but let me know if I missed anything,” Negan tells him. “And I put a few extras in there too. Things you might like. Things _I_ might like.” He winks at Carl, opening the door. “Oh, and this isn’t frat house, neaten this shit up a little,” he says, gesturing to the desk.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. “Sorry. I’m not used to having things.”

Negan pauses, looking back at him. “Well you have things now. You stick with me you’ll always have plenty. Take pride in that.”

Carl nods his head and maybe he’s just tired, absolutely worn out after being starved of intimacy for so many days, but the words hit him somewhere deep, making him hug himself. He’s spent so long just surviving that it still feels so strange being as fortunate as this, being looked after. Negan gives him a little nod in return, what feels to Carl like a reassurance, closing the door behind himself.

Carl reaches across, pulling the chair towards him so that he can look in the box. He sits crosslegged on the bed, peering into it, and he doesn’t know what to look at first. He picks out a couple of perfumes, admiring the fancy glass bottles before sniffing at them. He lifts one up, spraying it on his neck and inhaling. It’s softer, richer, than anything he’s worn before, and he wonders if this can possibly even out the manly musk that he can’t escape. He knows it’s only going to get worse as he gets older.

He looks back in the box and finds the things from his list, the razors, the nail polish, the hair clips. He takes each item out individually, examining it, forcing himself to appreciate it. He wants to acknowledge how lucky he is. He wants to file it all away so that he can show Negan later how grateful he is.

When he gets to the bottom of the box he finds the things that Negan has picked out for him. The first thing he comes to is nightwear, a couple of matching satin shorts and camisole sets. They’re beautifully made, the camisoles not dissimilar to the ones Carl already has, but when put alongside the matching shorts, the same little design details on both, it feels so much more special.

Smiling to himself, Carl decides that he definitely deserves a pyjama day. He’s tired and little bit fragile and Negan isn’t going to be bothering him again for the rest of the day. Might as well indulge himself.

He gets up and locks the door, stripping off and leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. He’ll tidy up later, he tells himself. He’ll have everything neat and organised and make Negan proud. Later.

He picks out the blue-grey set that reminds him of thunder clouds and anticipation. He loved storms when he was little. The shorts are loose fitting enough to hide everything he wants hiding but they’re still so pretty and feminine. He poses in front of the mirror, tries to look at himself from every angle, and then he looks back at the bed and sees how much else he still has to play with.

Passing by the box there’s still a few items left inside. The first is a nightgown, short, backless, a lace panel on the front beneath where his breasts should be. He holds it up and it looks so glamourous that he’s not sure he could even wear it. He puts it up against himself, looking at his reflection, and he wants so badly to slip it on, to look right in it. He folds it up, places it on the bed with everything else he has spread out. He’ll come back to it.

The next thing he finds is some kind of lace bra except it really doesn’t look like it would support anything. There’s little triangles of black lace and then two sets of dainty straps, one going from the edge of the lace, the other from the centre, that join together at the shoulder, crossing over at the back. It would be so easy to put under his clothes, easier than the camisoles that sometimes bunch up, giving him a weird shape, or threatening to show a glimpse of themselves when he leans over. No one would know he had this on. No one but him.

Underneath that he finds a dress, black and skin tight with a slit high up one leg. He stares at it. He would never wear this. It reminds of the dresses the wives were wearing on Carl’s first day at the Sanctuary though. This is the kind of thing Negan likes. He said he was putting some things in the box for him and Carl guesses this is what he meant. He chews on his lip, contemplating wearing this. He still needs to find a way to say thank you. He’s not sure anything in the world could make him grateful enough to parade around in this, though the thought of Negan’s face seeing him in it does make it seem almost worthwhile.

Next in the box is another dress, this one a deep blue made from a floaty fabric. There’s lot of material, giving it shape even just held in Carl’s hands so he can only imagine how flattering it would be on his body. This one he wants to wear. This one he wants to put on and never take off.

Right at the bottom of the box he finds two more things. One is a bottle of lube, brand new. It’s different from the one in Negan’s room, the large practical bottle. This one is smaller, a playful little design on the label, and it’s cherry flavoured. Carl flicks open the lid, smelling it. It reminds him of gummy candies and he finds himself craving sugar.

It’s childish but it’s also girly, and a not so subtle message about Negan popping Carl’s cherry. Carl knows the way his mind works, there’s no way it wasn’t deliberate. But Negan _has_ popped his cherry, in every conceivable way, has opened up a whole new world to him. Carl isn’t going to begrudge him taking pride in that fact, even if it is at his expense.

The last thing in the box is a string of lights like the ones you might get at Christmas, but each bulb lights up a little star. He goes to plug them in, smiling with wonder as they light up, such a simple thing seeming magical to him. He strings them up around his mirror, the soft glow lighting up all his cosmetics, falling onto his face.

He knows that survival is only a heartbeat away, doesn’t ever want to take that fact for granted, but he feels like he’s earned this, his own little sanctuary within Negan’s. He’s not soft. He’s not forgetting. He’s carving himself a life. It’s smart to have something to live for, rather than so many reasons to die.

Climbing back onto his bed, Carl looks over his new presents, restless with all the possibilities. He picks up the nail polish first, looking at the colours Negan has picked up, wondering if they were ones that appealed to him or ones he thought would appeal to Carl. There’s a couple of subtle shades that look classy and grown up to Carl and then a couple of bold, confident colours, as well as one glitter polish with little sparkles of gold in it. Carl can’t help rotating it, watching the specks catch the light.

He picks out a turquoise colour, pulling his feet up onto the bed and starting to paint his toenails. His hand is a little shaky but as he watches the colour coat his nails he finds it incredibly calming. It’s like artwork, the strokes of the brush, watching the blank space get filled in, turned into something beautiful. He does two coats and then he extends his legs out in front of him on the bed so that he can appreciate the full effect. The polish shimmers slightly in the light and it reminds Carl of a mermaid. It’s so pretty that Carl finds himself mesmerised. He imagines it beneath his boots, always there, a part of his body transformed to something more feminine.

He looks down at his hands and considers his short nails but he doesn’t have the guts for that, not yet. He picks up one of the subtler shades, a pale pink, wonders if people would really notice, but he doesn’t want to feel like he has to hide his hands whenever he’s around Negan’s men. He’s not going to be ashamed of this. He’s going to wait until he can be proud.

He tosses the polish aside and reaches for the shaving things, a three pack of plastic disposable razors, pink, along with a can of shaving foam that he didn’t ask for, didn’t think to ask for, but Negan has provided it anyway. The can is pink too, a picture of a flower on it. Carl frowns. He doesn’t like pink, not the garish bright pink that seems synonymous with being a girl. When he was younger he was pleased by that fact, it made him feel more normal, more of a boy. Once he started to come to terms with who he was he felt like it was something he was lacking, something that made him less of a girl. He’s since learnt there’s a lot of leeway between one and the other.

He puts the now empty box on the floor and drags the chair over to the sink with him. He assumes his room was once some kind of cleaning cupboard when the factory was operational, or maybe a utility. It had felt like a cell when he’d first moved in, a concrete room with only a single tiny window too high up to see anything but the sky through and a vent that rattled in the wind. He likes it now though, the privacy it offers him, the fact that he can’t be overlooked or spied upon. It feels safe.

He fills the sink with cold, murky water that comes from a tank on the roof. He’d never try to drink it but it does a good enough job of taking off makeup or secretly shaving your legs. Squirting some of the white foam into his hand he places his foot on the chair to raise his leg up, lathering up his shin. He takes the little plastic guard off the razor and looks at the double blade, the little pink moisturising strip. It feels like a gimmick but he hopes it works.

The first swipe up the centre of his skin scrapes away the foam and the hairs beneath. Carl stares at it like it’s some kind of magic trick, trailing a finger up the newly exposed flesh and feeling how smooth it is. He smiles to himself, something lighting up inside him, and he brings the razor down on the next section, eager for more.

He remembers Negan shaving in his bathroom back in Alexandria, the straight razor held to his own throat as he talked Carl through it, and Carl didn’t see it as a kindness at the time, saw it as a test of patience to see if he could resist lunging across to try and open up Negan’s artery. He feels like maybe Negan really was just offering a life lesson though. He sees everything through a different lens now and sometimes it makes him question himself because all those things that Negan did are so cruel and horrific, but every piece of kindness and understanding and acceptance he’s given him since is just as real.

He imagines Negan’s hand on the little pink razor, sliding it up Carl’s leg, the press of the blade against his skin. He imagines the look on his face, concentration and care, or maybe smugness and arousal. He imagines lying back, handing himself over, feeling himself being revealed, stripped away. He wants a witness, wants to be seen, wants to have nowhere left to hide. Maybe that’s how he sheds the last pieces that he can’t quite work out how to let go of.

Once his legs are shiny and hairless he lifts his arms, tackling his underarm hair. It takes a little longer, the tufty hair more difficult to tame, but when he looks in the mirror, shaved armpit against satin camisole, it feels so right, like an image finally coming into focus.

He clears off his bed, lies down, and then he just looks at himself, his mermaid toes, his shaved legs, his body transforming into what he sees in his head. His eye clouds over, tearing up, and he allows himself that small indulgence. He can have a cry every once in a while. It feels good to let go of it.

As he calms down he rubs his shins against one another, feeling the lack of friction, the smooth skin. He lifts one leg, runs the foot down the other one, exploring every angle, unable to find a flaw. He imagines wrapping them around Negan’s hips, imagines his reaction. He’ll like this. He’ll be proud. Carl decides to be proud too.

He knows he still has his pubic hair to tackle but he’s not quite sure what to do with that yet. He can’t get his head around the logistics of it and he has no idea how much he should take off, if he should take any of it off. He knows how Sherry looked, but he worries that it wouldn’t suit his body and he’d end up looking ridiculous. Maybe he should ask her about it. He’s too sore to even think about taking a razor to himself down there today though.

So for now he lies on his bed, his insides starting to match his outsides, and he daydreams about what he would do to himself next if he knew no one ever had to see.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few days he plays with the things from his box more and more. He moisturises his legs daily, experiments with wearing a little concealer and highlighter around the Sanctuary, feeling his confidence begin to soar. It’s little things that people would probably never pick up on but they make him feel more genuine, less like he’s lying all the time. He looks good when he catches sight of himself, but good like someone who is sleeping better rather than someone who is made up.

He is sleeping better in his little pyjama sets, surrounded in the soft material as he shifts against the bed, unable to resist indulging himself just a little as he settles into sleep. The first couple of days he’s too sore to do much else with himself other than enjoy the feel of the fabric against his skin, running his hands over it, occasionally imagining that they’re Negan’s. He has a lot of fantasies where he’s dressed like this, Negan looking at him with hungry eyes, sliding the flimsy straps down his shoulders, tugging the shorts down smooth legs.

He’s still a little too sensitive the first time he fingers himself again but he doesn’t have any patience left with himself and Negan hasn’t come calling to do the job for him. He’s checked in with Carl, touched base, kissed him until he was breathless and then left the room. Carl’s not sure if it’s a game or if he thinks giving Carl space is helping. Carl has too many hormones to try and work it out when he could just be fucking himself. Negan gave him the lube; it would be ungrateful not to use it.

When he finally finds himself naked on Negan’s bed again, Negan can’t seem to get enough of his legs. From the second he pulls Carl’s jeans off, his fingers and eyes don’t move away. He kneels by Carl’s side on the bed, body angled towards Carl’s toes, his turquoise, mermaid toes, and he yanks Carl’s legs into his lap, kissing from thigh right down to ankle, his beard dragging over the flesh that feels so much more sensitive since it was shaved. He lifts Carl’s leg, bending it at the knee, and kisses his toes too.

Carl likes his new confidence in his body, revels in it, and it makes it so much easier to accept the praise Negan is so clearly offering through his hands and mouth. As Negan places Carl’s legs back on the bed he deliberately sprawls them open, fingers trailing from the outside of Carl’s thigh to the inside as he manoeuvres himself between them, making Carl shiver. As Negan’s hand wraps around his cock, Carl has the confidence to shake his head.

“Here,” he says, guiding Negan’s fingers upwards, pushing them against the head of his cock.

Negan raises his eyebrows, looking surprised and maybe impressed. Carl doesn’t really care. Negan wraps his hand back around Carl’s cock, holding it firmly as his thumb presses against the head, massaging the slit.

Carl makes a noise of irritation. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Alright,” Negan says, lifting his hand away completely and holding it up like he’s surrendering. He nods downwards. “Why don’t you show me, then?”

Carl twists his mouth, half wishing he’d never said anything, but if he’s going to take ownership of his body he can’t shy away from this, not with the person he shares it with. Negan needs to know what feels right for him, how to make him feel good. Right from the start that’s felt like Negan’s goal. He likes to get off, but maybe even more he likes to make Carl’s eyes roll back with pleasure, likes to make him helpless with want. Judging from conversations he’s had with Sherry, it’s a running theme.

He reaches down, presses the heel of his palm against his cock to pin it to his body and uses two of his fingers to massage the head, pressing down alternately, sliding in the wetness of his precome. He moans, body tensing with how good it feels, how right. He watches Negan’s face as he touches himself, propped up between Carl’s legs, the frown on his face thoughtful, working something out. Carl feels sure he must know what this is, what he’s trying to emulate, even if he’s not sure if he’s really doing it anywhere near right. He’s doing it in the way that works for him though and that’s his new philosophy in life, to figure himself out and not shy away from it.

“Okay,” Negan finally says when Carl has almost forgotten what they were even doing here.

He reaches down, moving Carl’s hand out of the way and copying his position, touching him like Carl had touched himself, but it’s so much more intense when it’s Negan’s fingers doing the work. Carl cries out, bucking helplessly upwards.

“Like this then?” Negan says, and there’s only the tiniest hint of a tease in his voice.

“Show me how you touch them,” Carl rushes out, his words breathy and frantic.

Negan shifts his hand, pressing his middle finger down into the slit, making tight little circles. He slides his finger down, a tickle just below the head, and then he makes bigger circles, constantly just off from where Carl really wants to be touched. Of course this is what Negan does, driving them crazy, keeping them on that edge, giving them just short of what they really want. When Negan’s finger is finally right where Carl needs it, pressing down on his slit, Carl is ready to offer Negan anything, moaning loudly, back arching against the sheets.

“They like this too,” Negan says.

He splays his fingers, placing one either side of the head of Carl’s cock, and then he leans forward, swiping his tongue over the tip.

“Oh fuck,” Carl gasps.

Negan nods, doing it again. “Now let’s get those pretty little legs of yours wrapped around my ears,” he says, lifting them from the bed. “Actually, you know what, pass me the lube, let’s make an evening of this.”

Carl contorts himself willingly, grabbing for the drawer, grasping the bottle of lube in his sweaty hand. Negan flips it open, coating two fingers, and Carl arranges himself on his back again, concentrating on nothing but breathing in and out, trying to let his body do what it knows how to do, what it’s gotten so good at.

As Negan’s fingers slide into him, Carl lifts his hips, getting a better angle, everything tightening as Negan pushes deliberately against his prostate. According to _Cosmo_ , girls have a spot inside them that feels good too, the knowledge giving Carl permission to embrace the sensation, the way it pulses up his spine like Negan is connected to his entire central nervous system, pushing at the inside of his brain.

His fingers still working Carl, Negan places his other hand back on Carl’s cock, pressing it firmly against him, his head dipping down to lick at the leaking slit. The dual sensations are so overwhelming to Carl that it takes him a second to process it as pleasure. He whines, gasping for air, and Negan has no hands left to position Carl, manhandle and direct him around like he usually would, but Carl knows what he wants, lifting his legs up, draping them over his shoulders, letting Negan feel the inside of his thighs against the side of his face. Negan makes an appreciative noise just as his lips close over the head of Carl’s cock and Carl tightens his legs without meaning to, his whole body reverberating.

He reaches down, fingers playing over Negan’s hair, trying to express something that he can’t put into words as he just mutters _fuck, fuck, fuck_ under his breath like a filthy litany. Negan teases him with his teeth before he pulls back, tongue pressing into the slit, making little circles that he matches with the fingers he has against Carl’s prostate.

There is literally no force in the universe that could stop Carl coming in that moment and he tries to tug at Negan’s hair, warn him, but a conflicting part of him wants to push him down as well. Negan doesn’t move, doesn’t even try, closing his lips around the tip of Carl’s cock as Carl starts to come, swallowing him down, and Carl’s body shudders with the sight of it, the feel of it, the pure acceptance radiating off Negan’s body.

He takes his mouth away from Carl’s dick, resting his cheek down on the inside of Carl’s thigh, humming happily as he rubs his beard back and forth against the sensitive flesh. His fingers are still inside Carl’s body and he makes no move to take them out. Carl stares down at him, his eyesight a little bleary, but Carl knows the expression on his face can’t be anything but pure affection.

“You know, I really do love a girl who knows what she likes,” Negan says, his voice deep and rumbling. “Good for you.”

Carl smiles at him, his lips contorting into a little moan as Negan slides his fingers deep inside his body, pulling them out oh so slowly before doing it again.

“You up for a nice, long fuck?” Negan offers. “We’ll start out slow.”

Carl nods his head. “Okay,” he says, before correcting himself. “Yes, please.”

Negan turns his face into Carl’s thigh, humming before he parts his lips, biting down on the flesh. “You are just delicious,” he says, crawling up Carl’s body to kiss him, his mouth still tasting like Carl’s come.

*

The evening before his first guard duty, Carl sits at his desk in his pyjamas, looking at himself in the mirror. He’s already taken off his subtle not-wearing-makeup makeup look and his face looks so different to him without it, showing up all the flaws, looking somehow two dimensional. He shivers, lifting his bare feet from the concrete floor and onto the rung of the chair. He should ask for some slippers. And a robe. He glances at his bed in the mirror. And maybe a fluffy blanket too.

He looks down at his desk, his now neatly organised desk, picking up the gold glitter nail polish and holding it up to his little star lights, watching it glint and twinkle. He unscrews the lid, contemplating the brush, and then paints some onto his thumb nail, looking at it shine. It’s subtle, mostly transparent except for the specks of gold, but it looks so decadent. He likes it and he doubts anyone’s going to inspect his hands.

He replaces the little bottle and runs a finger over the other colours, feeling impatient to try them all out. He could paint each nail a different colour but he doesn’t want to look like a kid experimenting with his mom’s stash. He’s past that point. He wants to look classy.

His eyes fall on his knife at the edge of the desk, sitting in its leather sheaf, and he pulls it towards him, smiling to himself. He picks up the turquoise, his favourite of the colours, and starts to paint geometric designs onto the leather. It’s not as shiny as it is on his nails but he likes the look of it with the ragged texture of the leather beneath. Once he’s drawn his design he picks up another colour, a pale pink, and begins to fill it in. He works on it carefully, using all of his polishes, until the entire side of the sheath is covered in the pretty pattern.

The next morning he puts on a pair of panties, pulling his jeans up his legs, and then he picks up his lacy bralette. That’s what Sherry told him it was called. He holds it up, unsure how to even get into it. He hasn’t tried it yet but it seems like a safer bet than a camisole. He’s not sure what he’ll have to do today. The thought of unpredictability, of danger, of thinking fast, using his body for something other than sex, it gives him a thrill. He was worried he might atrophy away in here. He knows that this is still far from a sure thing, that Negan hasn’t made his mind up yet, but he’s just grateful for the opportunity to prove himself.

He pulls the bralette over his head, tugging it down into position, adjusting it in the mirror until he has it sat right. It’s snug against his skin, the lace soft and not rough like he imagined. He likes the feel of it, the support it gives him, the security. He pulls his T-shirt over the top and looks at himself as though he’ll see some difference. The only difference is inside though, underneath. Confidence.

He picks up his knife, running a finger over the now dried design before sliding it into his belt. He looks at himself in the mirror, satisfied with the compromise. Today isn’t about being pretty; it’s about that other restless part of himself that has gone unanswered for too long. He has his underwear, he has his diamond, he has his shaved legs and his mermaid toes and his glittery thumbnail. He has his knife painted with the new parts of his life. Now he gets to use them all to be strong.

He leaves his room, heading towards the armoury, an area he’s only ever seen in passing, has never had any business to visit. As he approaches he can see Negan leaning against the wall, one leg crossed behind the other, Lucille slung on his shoulder.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he calls as Carl approaches.

“Hi,” Carl returns, eying him warily.

“I’ve got you with Evan round back,” Negan says.

“Yeah, I know,” Carl responds.

“Of course you do,” Negan says, amusement clear on his face.

Carl tries not to look ungrateful, but this is like his dad waiting with him for the school bus on the first day of term. Negan nods to the guy in the armoury who passes Carl a machine gun. He slings it over his shoulder, trying not to look giddy at the feel of it. He turns back to Negan.

“I’m gonna head around.”

Negan nods. “You do that. I’ll catch up with you later, kid.” He scans Carl’s body, eyes catching on the knife. “That’s cute.”

“Thanks,” Carl says with a smile, deciding to take it at face value. It is cute.

“Have fun,” Negan tells him.

Carl adjusts the strap on his shoulder as he walks away, unable to leave it alone. He misses his holster, a gun always with him. The few times they’ve tried going unarmed in the past have always ended in disaster. The Sanctuary feels safe, is well protected, by reputation as much by armed guards, but Carl knows that nothing is guaranteed. He’s long since learned that shooting first and asking questions later is the best policy. Having that option taken away from him feels like the most dangerous thing about this situation.

He heads outside, a man already stood at the post, and Carl assumes it must be Evan. He still doesn’t know many of the people here, certainly not by name. He keeps to himself even when he’s not kept out of the way by Negan.

“Hey,” he greets as he walks up. “I’m Carl.”

“Evan,” the guy nods. “And just so you know, I didn’t sign up for babysitting duty.”

Carl stares at him, his face going red, undermining him. “Good,” he says. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Evan turns away, muttering something about _utter bullshit_ , and Carl thinks he must be either very brave or very stupid. This guy must know who he is, know his place with Negan, know that he’s killed. His reputation precedes him around the Sanctuary. If he doesn’t deal with it himself then there’s nothing to stop him going to Negan, telling him about this guy’s attitude, getting him in trouble. Carl has the power to make life very difficult for him if he wanted. He would never be that petty, but Evan doesn’t know him, can’t be sure of that fact.

Carl steps away, looking out over the dusty yard, the fence beyond. It’s sunny, light, fluffy clouds high up in the atmosphere. It feels good to be outside, feel the breeze on his face. It’s quiet around here and Carl guesses that why Negan put him on this duty. Keep him out of trouble. Keep him safe. Carl’s more than capable of handling himself but he guesses he has to earn that privilege. He’s willing to put the work in.

Evan paces up and down, clearly restless, but Carl focuses on the area outside the fence. He knows all about protecting people, looking out for each other, and he’s going to keep his wits about him. He’s going to do this right.

He’d forgotten about the strain of being so alert, how tiring the concentration is when there’s so much at stake. He’s not really sure what’s at stake here, not when the place is so well armed, he doesn’t think anyone would dare try anything. Carl wonders about being on this side of the fence, defending the people he’s certain Rick and the others want to take down. He’s not sure what would happen if it came down to it. He’s not willing to think about that right now. He’ll go visit his dad. He’ll work things out. While Carl is here, he guesses that Rick will at least try to stay on Negan’s good side.

When Evan wanders down to the fence, Carl lets his guard down a little. He looks up at the building, imposing but ugly, and wonders why Negan decided to set up his Sanctuary here. From a military standpoint it makes sense, but it’s so cold and unforgiving. He thinks back to the prison, the place they thought they could make a home, despite its original purpose. It doesn’t matter what things were, it only matters what you can make of them. Carl doesn’t bother believing in the long term anymore. It all seems to fall apart eventually.

“Scoping the place out?” Evan asks, suddenly by his side. “Do you want me to just get you some blueprints to send to your friends?”

Carl frowns at him. “What?”

Evan shakes his head, moving away.

“If I was planning something you’d all be dead by now,” Carl tells him.

Evan looks at him sideways; part distain, part wariness. Carl wants to prove himself, be a part of the community here, and he knows threats aren’t the way to do that, but he can’t stand being underestimated. He’s not a kid and he won’t be patronised. He wants people to know who he is, what he’s capable of, wants them to respect it, but that’s something he’s going to have to earn. That and their trust. He’d almost forgotten just how he came to be here, what he’d done to these people when he exploded out of the back of that truck.

He forces himself to relax his stance, to look less combative. “We’re on the side same side,” he tells Evan.

“What side is that?” Evan asks.

Carl shrugs. “Humanity?”

Evan shakes his head. “That’s never been just one side.”

Carl stares out at the fence again, the world outside the yard. That’s not the kind of debate he’s willing to get involved in right now.

He’s gotten good at marking the time of day by the movement of the shadows, the time of year by the length of them, how long it takes for the sun to make it’s trip from horizon to horizon. He knows all the little subtle tells that nature offers him, things he never noticed when he had a wristwatch and a calendar, the plants and the birds and the colour of the sky.

That’s how he knows that it’s late afternoon when he sees the walker shuffling towards them. He instantly perks up, alert but, he admits to himself, also excited. His hairs stand on end, his focus laser sharp. Without taking his eyes off it he pulls the strap of the gun over his head, strapping it securely to his back as he reaches for his knife, stepping forward.

“I should do that,” Evan protests. “Stay here.”

Carl hops down the few steps, turning to face Evan as he walks away from him. “You’re not here to babysit me,” he reminds him, giving him a smile before turning back toward the walker, moving determinately towards it.

It’s not really a challenge, a single walker listing to the left as he lumbers forward, but it’s all Carl’s had in a long time and it comes back to him like muscle memory, this feeling, power and survival, something evolutionary. The enemy. The kill.

He grabs the walkers ragged shirt in his left fist, leaning away from the snarling teeth as he brings up his knife, driving it through the skull, making it slump against Carl’s grip. As he pulls the knife out, letting the walker fall, the gold glitter on his thumbnail catches the sun, a stark counterpoint to the blood that drips from his knife, and he can’t help staring at it.

He hears a noise to his right and turns, seeing that the walker wasn’t alone like he thought. There’s five or six of them approaching from his blind side and he pivots his body to put his good eye forward, holding up the knife in defence as he edges closer. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, a thundering rhythm that nothing but sex seems to bring on nowadays, but this feels different, like life pumping through him, fuelled by a need not a want.

He stabs the first walker, shoving it to the ground before aiming at the second. Another knife gets there first and he shifts to see Evan is now beside him. It makes him feel off balance, having so little input of what’s going on around him, and he knows that this is dangerous, dangerous like Negan warned him it would be, ridiculing his lack of aim, but that doesn’t mean Carl is going to lose. He’s overcome more than this. The people who’ve survived this long are either lucky or cunning. Carl has never had luck on his side.

He moves to the left, taking the small group from one side while Evan comes from the other, trusting Evan to cover his bad side. He kills the nearest walker, using its body to block the one behind it as he reaches over to stab it through the eye. As he shoves them both aside, going for the next one, Evan again gets there first and as Carl turns to face him he realises that Evan isn’t covering himself, he’s covering Carl. Either he thinks Carl isn’t capable of doing this or he’s scared of being the one responsible if Carl gets hurt. Both options irritate Carl. He doesn’t want special treatment because of his relationship with Negan and he certainly doesn’t want to be seen as a damsel. He’s more than capable of saving himself.

With Evan’s attention on Carl he misses the walker approaching from behind, a hand grabbing at him, catching on his collar. His eyes go wide and Carl steps forward, driving his blade through the walker’s skull, blood splattering Evan as he pulls his knife away. When the walker goes down it takes Evan to his knees. He looks up at Carl, breathing heavily, the close call written all over his face. Carl stands over him, raising an eyebrow.

“Now who needs a babysitter?”

He wipes the blood off his knife onto his grubby jeans and holsters it, leaning down to pick up a leg each of two of the walkers, dragging them over to where they can dispose of them.

The rest of the shift is uneventful but Carl is still buzzed, feeling proud and, if he’s honest with himself, more than a little superior. Negan turns up as they’re handing over, getting ready to leave, and Carl has the urge to gush to him, but not in front of these guys. He doesn’t want to be the wife right now, but he knows what he signed up for, knows that he can’t deny it now.

“How did we do?” Negan asks, swinging Lucille up onto his shoulder, his hips swaying obscenely as he moves towards Carl, and Carl wonders how he can possibly get so much sex into every tiny gesture.

“Good,” he nods, forcing himself to look Negan in the eye, not be distracted by any of the trimmings. He’s not falling into the trap, not now.

“You have fun?” Negan asks, leaning into him, touching the bloodstain on his thigh.

“I did my job,” Carl responds, not sure he wants to admit how much he enjoyed it.

“Do you like your job?” Negan prompts.

Carl nods his head. “Yeah.”

“That is what I like,” Negan tells him. “Job satisfaction.” He glances at the other men and then looks pointedly at the machine gun strap across Carl’s chest. “And where are you going now?”

“To sign the gun back in,” Carl says obediently.

“That’s right,” Negan agrees. He moves in closer, leering. “And then where are you going?” he asks, licking his lips.

“To take a shower,” Carl says, giving Negan a defiant look.

Negan looks at the other men again and then back to Carl, moving away from him. “Well, alright then. Don’t let me keep you. I’ll just stay here and have a little word with Evan.”

Carl watches as Negan walks towards him, eyes flicking between the two of them, and he doesn’t know what Evan’s going to say, can imagine all the complaints he could have about Carl and his attitude. The guy clearly doesn’t like him and Carl probably didn’t help matters.

As Negan reaches Evan he turns back to Carl. “Run along then,” he says, making a shooing gesture.

Carl sighs, throwing one last look at Evan, trying to get a read on him, but Evan is already focussed on Negan, a man who could get anything out of anyone. There’s nothing for Carl to do but turn and walk away.

A shower has never felt so well earned, even if he did comparatively little. He had a purpose today though and he can’t help revelling in that, after all this time locked up in these concrete walls. He likes being pretty but he doesn’t want to be reduced to nothing but that. He wants it to be a choice and he wants control over when and how and for who. He feels empowered by the events of the day but he knows how easy it would be to have it all taken away from him.

He puts on panties and a camisole, the floaty material comforting him. He liked the bralette, liked the way it moved against his flesh as his muscles shifted with each swing of the knife, a sensation that heightened the capabilities of his own body. Now he wants softness though, the silk caressing his body. He appreciates the way the different items of clothing make him feel, whilst all of them still feel undeniably like _him_. He feels like that might mean that he’s finally working out who he is.

He puts on jeans and a T-shirt when he leaves his room later than evening, the girl clothes nestled beneath. He likes that image; nestled, not hidden. It’s a choice, one he feels like he’s getting closer to making. He doesn’t bother to put his boots on, padding barefoot to the staircase door. As he opens it, it swings out of his hand, Carl looking up to find Negan holding it open for him.

“After you, Carl,” Negan offers. He tilts his head, considering him. “Carly?”

“No,” Carl says instinctively.

“No?” Negan asks. “I think it suits you, but okay.”

Carl eyes him warily, feeling like he’s being made fun of, and maybe that’s the reason for his kneejerk reaction. The feminisation of his name just makes him think of schoolyard taunts, when, for a boy, being like a girl was the worst thing in the world. He’s removed himself so far from that type of thinking, reprogrammed how he interprets these things, but there’s still this innate little part of him that attaches shame to it.

“We’ll come back to that,” Negan says thoughtfully, the conflict clearly written on Carl’s face.

Negan gestures again toward the doorway and Carl steps inside, Negan following him as the door slams shut behind them. Carl takes a step towards the stairs and then turns back to Negan.

“What did Evan say?”

“Well, you just get straight to the point, don’t you,” Negan comments. “Where’s the foreplay?” Carl gives him a look. Negan relents. “He said you’re competent, you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s it?” Carl asks.

Negan considers him. “What did you expect him to say?”

Carl shrugs, wondering whether it’s worth rocking the boat. Faint praise is better than straight up calling Carl a brat. Carl bites on his lip but it doesn’t keep the comment back.

“Did he mention that I saved his life?”

Negan raises his eyebrows. “He said you had his back.”

Carl rolls his eyes. “A walker had his back. I had a knife and a clue.”

“Lucky you were there then,” Negan states. “Is there something I should know about you two? Because I’m sensing an atmosphere. From both sides. Is this a problem?”

“No,” Carl denies.

“Do you want me to say something?” Negan offers. “I can straighten him out.”

“Don’t do that,” Carl pleads. “Don’t say anything. They already think I’m only there because I let you put your dick in me. If you come to my defence they’re never going to respect me. I can take care of it.”

“Alright,” Negan shrugs. “You’re with him again on Friday then.”

Carl steps back, the fight going out of him at Negan’s straightforward trust, and he leans against the wall, his eyes on Negan’s boots. “I really did save his life,” he says. “The guy’s an idiot. A shit talking idiot. I mean, he could say the same about me, but at least I know what I’m doing.”

“If he disrespects you again, just kill him,” Negan says, the words perfectly matter of fact.

Carl laughs but it catches in his throat when he realises that Negan is serious. That’s exactly how he’d handle this situation. Carl swallows uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“You heading up to see Sherry?” Negan asks.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. “I mean, unless you were…”

“You can have her,” Negan dismisses. “I don’t mind a little sharing. I think it’s cute that you girls are such good friends. Besides, I have a veritable buffet up there and it’s only fair I spread the love around.” He gestures to the stairs. “Ladies first.”

Carl smiles, blushing at the words. He pushes away from the wall, certain that Negan is watching his ass as he climbs up the stairs.

*

At breakfast the next morning, Carl gets his food and heads towards his usual spot tucked away on the stairs. He passes by the table where Negan’s men sit, Evan amongst them, all laughing and joking and flaunting their privileges. Carl’s never had to work for the food in front of him, has no points to his name, ever since he arrived he’s simply been handed the best things available, no questions asked. Now he’s starting to earn it though, he wants to if Negan will let him, there’s no reason for him to go hide in shame.

He spins around, sitting down at the table without asking permission. If he wants to be part of this, earn his place, he’s going to have to own it.

Everyone goes quiet as he sits down. He keeps his head down, concentrating on his food, and he can tell that they’re all exchanging looks, silently questioning what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but his hunch that no one would dare call him out seems to be correct. He doesn’t like being thought of as Negan’s property but he’s willing to use it in the short term until he proves himself.

“We’re working together again on Friday,” Evan eventually says, possibly more for the benefit of everyone else at the table than Carl.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees, looking up at him. “I’m looking forward to getting back out there. I’ve missed it.”

“You do a lot of fighting?” Evan asks doubtfully. “How old are you?”

“I kind of lost count,” Carl shrugs.

It’s true to a certain extent. It’s hard to really judge the weeks, the months. The years have passed and he has an idea what birthday should have been his last, but what does it really matter? They don’t celebrate trivialities. He just _is_. Anything beyond that seems pointless to debate.

“How much combat experience can you really have?” Evan persists. “Look, I get it, you know what you’re doing with those creepy fuckers and you’ve got a decent arm, you’ll probably be fine helping out on guard duty, but I don’t think you understand what’s really out there, how bad it gets.”

Carl puts his fork down and looks him dead in the eye, lifting his hair to reveal the extent of the damage to his face. He sees the emotions flicker over Evan’s face, disgust and pity and fear. It makes Carl want to shy away but he holds the hair defiantly in place. He has to own it. It’s been the only option he’s had all along and he had to get here sooner or later.

“I have a pretty good idea how bad it gets,” he tells Evan evenly. “I’ve lived out there, no walls, just a group of people determined to survive, to do whatever it takes. We always kept moving forward. I have never let anything stop me. Not walkers, not people, not this. I don’t come from some quaint little community that needs Negan’s protection. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” He lets his hair fall down, not taking his eye away from Evan. “How about you? How did you survive out there? Or have you always been here, under Negan’s wing, hiding in his shadow?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns back to his food and forces himself to eat it, even though his heart is racing and he can feel the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. No one says anything for a long time, not until Carl finishes his food and starts to gather up his things.

“Sick scar, bro,” the guy next to him says appreciatively as Carl gets to his feet.

Carl looks down at him, a bemused snatch of laughter escaping his mouth. “Thanks,” he says, turning and walking away.

 _Own it_ , he tells himself. _You’re a badass._

Carl sits at the table during every mealtime and the guys don’t talk to him much but he’s not asked to answer for himself again. It took time with Negan, it took time with Sherry, he knows this will take time too.

He still keeps himself to himself the rest of the day, spends time upstairs with Sherry or just alone in his own room, playing with all his things, trying to come to terms with what he’s willing to share. Hiding this side of himself is starting to feel shameful and he’s not ashamed of it. He’s worried about people’s reactions, worried about being taken seriously, worried that people will think this is something Negan makes him do.

As far as Carl knows, he’s the only guy Negan has been with, at least in the context of his current role in life. Judging by how confident he was with Carl’s body since the first time he touched him, this is not something new that he’s feeling his way through. But Negan has wives, and then he has Carl, a pretty boy kid who is maybe just paying his dues for killing some of Negan’s men. Carl tells himself he doesn’t care what people think of him, but he doesn’t want them to think that.

It’s the constant conflict between wanting to be himself but still wanting to be taken seriously, to be seen as strong and competent. A boy dressed as a girl, fucking the thing he professed to hate, doesn’t exactly inspire respect.

The disconnect between his insides and his outsides is starting to feel greater though and he hates being stuck in this skin, being made to feel like he has no other choice. He doesn’t, there’s nothing he can do to his body to turn it into what he really craves, but he can still take control of the things he can change, his clothes, his look, the tools that girls have at their disposal.

He rubs his bare shins together as he stares into the mirror, the stubble catching again already. They don’t stay smooth for long enough, even with the softness of his skin from the moisturiser, and he hates how quickly his hormones try to make him manly again.

He stands up, filling the sink with water as gets his pink razor ready. It feels like a familiar routine already, lathering up his skin, dragging the razor across it. He likes the grooming, the taking care of himself. It’s something he has control over, a physical change he’s capable of making, but it’s more than that, it’s the act of treating himself with care, of looking after himself and taking pride in his body.

As he runs a hand up his freshly shaved skin, trailing it up over his knee of the leg propped up on a chair, he can’t help sliding it higher, into the slack leg hole of his little pyjama shorts. The hair there is coarse and unsightly and he finally feels like he’s brave enough to do something with it. These little adjustments to his physical appearance are like stepping stones to accepting himself. Do the things that no one can see first and hope the rest will somehow fall in line.

He slips his shorts down his legs and grabs a towel, spreading it out on the floor so he can sit down, legs splayed, considering himself. He remembers how Sherry looked, shaved at the sides, minimal hair neatly trimmed at the top. He figures that must be what Negan likes but then he decides that doesn’t matter, it’s what Carl likes. It’s what Carl wants.

The hair doesn’t come off nearly as easily as it does on his legs, longer and thicker and nestled in places that Carl can’t quite seem to get the razor comfortably. He tries opening his legs wider, tries running the razor over himself from a different direction, up, down, sideways, but it seems impossible to get the angle right. He has to go over the hair too many times and he manages to cut himself, blood turning the remnants of the shaving foam red.

He wants to give up but he’ll look ridiculous if he leaves it like this, worse than if he’d never started, so he perseveres, forcing himself to slow down, to take his time. This is supposed to be about pampering, being kind to himself, and so he tries to let go of the frustration, putting on some fresh shaving foam and starting again, trying to get the razor to glide like it does over his legs.

When he’s finally done, patting himself dry with the towel, he likes the look of it. It seems more feminine and less rugged and manly. It’s already a little sore though, the skin red, and he doesn’t want to put his shorts back on. He considers his dresser, knows the nightgown is in there, the one he hasn’t dared wear yet. He should let air get to his skin. It’s the sensible thing to do.

He pulls his camisole off and opens the drawer, holding the nightgown up by its tiny straps. Without letting himself think about it too much he slides it over his head, letting it shimmy down his body. He looks at himself in the mirror, the rich plum colour against his pale chest and thighs. It’s so beautiful. He fusses with his hair, tries to look worthy of it, thinks maybe he should put some makeup on, even if all he’s going to do is relax in it before bed.

He spins around, looks at the low, sweeping back; so dramatic, so sexual. Negan would love him in this. He wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him. The thought makes Carl smile and blush and feel a little bit more confident. He’s not the only one who likes his body like this. Negan accepting him, _wanting_ him, in moments like this it’s almost enough validation to walk down the hall like this.

He turns back around, facing himself, runs his hands over the lace panels, his flesh showing beneath. He feels so empowered, even if it doesn’t sit right against his flat chest. He adjusts the material, smoothing over it, but the stitching won’t lie flat. He grabs some tissues, wadding them up and stuffing them inside, trying to give the illusion of breasts. If he squints it maybe looks half-alright, but it’s not real. He doesn’t want to fake it. If he wants to make his peace with this, he has to work with what he’s got.

He pulls the tissues out and grabs his moisturiser, moving over to the bed. He rubs the lotion into his legs, letting himself revel in the freshly smooth skin as he massages every inch of himself. It feels so perfect under his hands, how he always imagined a girl would feel. He lifts the nightgown up, coating the inside of his legs with the cool liquid. It looks a little lumpy and he wonders if he did it wrong.

He covers himself up and lies back on the bed. He’s read every issue of _Cosmo_ cover to cover so many times they have nothing left to offer him and so he stares at the ceiling, wondering where he might get some new reading material from.

The following afternoon, Carl answers a knock at his door to find Negan leaning against the frame.

“I’m bored,” he announces. “Do you want to fuck?”

Carl laughs. “Is that what passes for romance now? You’re not even trying.”

“No, I’m not,” Negan agrees. “But I am offering you first refusal, you should be flattered by that. Fuck?”

Despite himself, Carl feels charmed and a little bit touched. In reality, it’s probably just because he’s closer and Negan can’t be bothered to climb the stairs, but Carl doesn’t need to let his ego know that right now.

He hesitates, looking down at his body, considering his crotch. He moisturised it again this morning but it’s still red and sore.

“You can get changed first,” Negan tells him. “If we’re still being precious about that.”

“No,” Carl dismisses. “I mean, yeah, I’d get changed, but that’s not…” He trails off, levelling his gaze at Negan. “It’s not precious.”

“It’s completely precious,” Negan says, reaching forwards and tucking some hair behind Carl’s ear. “Are you coming to my room or am I going upstairs? I’m not interested if you’re not in the mood and you better fucking know it’s okay to say that.”

Carl nods his head. He does know, but the problem is he’s always in the mood. “Give me five minutes.”

“I’m giving you three,” Negan answers, turning and walking down the hall.

Carl closes the door and gets undressed, discarding his panties and camisole and dressing again in just his jeans and T-shirt. He looks at the girl clothes left behind on the bed and part of him wants to put them back on, wants to feel what it would be like to wear them for someone else, but Negan’s attention feels too much like a glaring spotlight, something that he can’t quite live up to. He doesn’t want Negan’s commentary on this. He needs to make it his own first. Besides, he feels like he’s already going to have far too much attention when he takes his jeans off today. One new thing at a time is all he can handle.

Negan is sitting on the edge of his bed when Carl gets to his room, legs spread apart, boots discarded on the floor. He beckons Carl over to him, tugging him between his legs by his hips when he gets close enough. Carl leans into him, lets himself be pulled into a kiss. He likes being directed, guided, it makes him feel cared for but also desired and it feels good to shut down his brain, to simply feel.

Negan takes hold of Carl’s hand, places it against his crotch, his obviously hard cock. “See how horny you make me,” he murmurs.

“You were horny before I got here,” Carl points out.

“I was,” Negan agrees, his voice smooth and cocky. “But now it’s all for you. Aren’t you the lucky one.”

He slides Carl’s T-shirt upwards and Carl lifts his arms, letting him pull it off. Negan’s hands slide down his chest, his flat chest, before wrapping around him and tugging him closer. He sucks on Carl’s neck, baring his teeth against it, probably trying to leave a mark. Carl considers how he would feel having to wear that on guard duty tomorrow, but as one of Negan’s hands slides down to grab his ass he quickly decides that he doesn’t care.

“Get on the bed,” Negan tells him as he pulls away, tugging off his own shirt.

Carl lies down, Negan moving over to join him, going straight for his jeans. Carl holds his breath as Negan pulls them down, leaving him naked and feeling more exposed than he did the first time Negan ever undressed him. Negan runs a hand down the inside of his thigh, encouraging his legs apart, and then he stops, his face looking puzzled, or maybe disgusted. He leans down to Carl’s crotch and Carl can feel himself blush right down to his chest.

“What the fuck did you do to yourself?” Negan asks.

Carl feels the shame wash over him and he tries to sit up. Negan has never mentioned anything about his hair before, he should have just left it, at least then it would go uncommented on rather than judged and ridiculed.

“Sorry,” Carl says instinctively, hoping he can just make it stop. He finally manages to get his legs away from Negan, sitting up and pulling them towards himself.

Negan watches him, his expression turning to concern and confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“You…” Carl begins, but placing blame isn’t helpful. “I just thought you might like it. I thought it was… Did I fuck it up?”

“Oh, I appreciate the sentiment,” Negan tells him, edging closer. “Baby, I like it. I like that you did that. But I gave you razors. It looks like you did that with a rusty spoon.”

Carl frowns at him, not getting it.

“It looks sore,” Negan clarifies. “I look after my girls. I don’t like them being uncomfortable. Well, not unless I’m the one who does it to them, then it’s fair game.”

Carl looks down, embarrassed. “I didn’t really know what I was doing,” he admits.

Negan moves up to sit beside him. “How about next time you come to me,” he offers. “I can show you how it’s done.”

Carl crinkles his nose. “You’d want to do that?” he asks doubtfully.

“Carl,” Negan says, making him look up at him. “I would _love_ to do that. You have no idea.” He slides an arm around Carl. “I take care of my girls. Every inch of them. Plus, it tends to make them very grateful, and I like grateful,” he leers, lips grazing over Carl’s temple. He looks down. “Can I see?”

Carl slides his legs apart, closing his eyes as Negan leans over. Negan’s fingertips ghosting over his thigh make him shiver, a tiny noise getting caught in his throat.

“You are not gonna want my beard down there right now,” Negan comments. He pulls his hand away. “Rain check?”

Carl shakes his head, looking up at him. “You’ve got other body parts you could put there.”

“Oh, yeah?” Negan asks, that look back in his eye. He pushes Carl onto the bed. “Well, I am open to suggestions.”

*

Carl likes to put his makeup on in his underwear. Doing it while he’s wearing his boy clothes doesn’t feel right. He’s still only putting the subtlest of things on, the concealer and highlighter to make his skin smoother and give him some definition. He avoided it while he was on his first guard duty, too self-conscious of being judged, but he’s been wearing it again for the last couple of days while he’s been sitting at the table with Negan’s men. He likes the way it makes him feel and their lack of rejection, their slow acceptance of him, has given him the confidence to bleed through this other half of himself, the real half.

He brushes his hair and then braids a section of it to sit behind his left ear, keeping it out of the way of his eye. It’s a smart thing to do if he’s going to be fighting. It’s also pretty and it makes Carl smile. He leaves the right side of his hair free to fall over his scar, sweeping side bangs like he’s seen some of the girls in _Cosmo_ wearing. They always look glamourous and a little bit mysterious. He likes that.

He stands up, pulling his jeans up over his panties, tugging on his shirt over his bralette. He looks down at himself and reaches into the neck of his T-shirt, pulling out the diamond so that it sits on top of the faded fabric. He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s never seen the diamond in sunlight before. He imagines that it will sparkle. He wants to find out.

Before he leaves the room he grabs his favourite perfume, spraying some on and taking a deep breath, a perfect little confidence booster.

His guard shift is disappointingly uneventful, he was hoping for some more action, but the atmosphere between he and Evan is much more relaxed. It feels like there’s an understanding between them now, a begrudging respect, but respect none the less. Evan chats to him a little as they keep an eye on the fence and it feels comfortable. It feels like camaraderie.

When the guys come to relieve them, Carl heads back towards the armoury, savouring the weight of the gun before he has to give it back.

“Hey, Carl.”

Carl turns to see Evan coming towards him.

“After our shift, we usually head downstairs,” Evan tells him. “There’s a rec room, somewhere to let loose a little. Do you wanna come?”

“Yeah, sure,” Carl responds, surprised by the invitation but not about to blow it off. “Thanks.” He looks at the strap across his chest. “I just have to… give this back,” he admits, embarrassed.

Evan nods. “I’ll walk with you.”

Carl hands over the gun, looking at Evan’s own holstered weapon as they walk away. Carl understands why he’s not allowed one, why Negan doesn’t want him to have one, he’s probably more of a risk carrying a gun with his lopsided aim than he would be able to protect anyone, but it’s still humiliating to have to hand it back at the end of his shift, like he’s using training wheels.

He follows Evan down to the basement, hearing the music before he reaches the rec room. It’s loud, something old fashioned that his dad would listen to. It’s pretty busy inside, mostly guys that Carl has seen before, but he’s never really socialised with any of these people, not even Evan.

He hovers in the doorway, watching an enthusiastic game of air hockey as Evan heads over to a fridge, taking out a beer.

“Do you want one?” he offers.

Carl looks at it, remembering the unpleasant taste of the beer Negan had given him a swig of. “Uh, no thanks,” he responds. He’s grateful for the offer though, for not being treated like a little kid with a curfew.

“Soda?” Evan suggests, opening the fridge a little wider to let Carl see.

Carl smiles, moving over and grabbing one. He cracks it open, taking a long swallow and savouring the coldness, the bubbles. Sometimes he forgets all the things he has to miss.

He sits on one of the old sofas, the stuffing coming out of it, and it’s a world away from the top floor, where Sherry and the wives are, everything new and perfect and expensive. Carl likes it up there, how clean and far removed it is, but it’s never felt real to him. This feels real, even if it’s a little unpleasant, and it’s nice to not be excluded from that.

He chats with some of the guys, accepts the invitation to play air hockey, even though he knows he’s not going to be good at it. It’s easier than darts at least. When he finally excuses himself that evening he feels a sense of achievement, of acceptance. It’s the same feeling he had when he got his diamond, when he was officially considered Negan’s wife. Belonging.

There’s a knock on his door as he lies on his bed, happy and contented and a little bit buzzed.

“Come in.”

Negan enters, closing the door behind himself. “I was looking for you earlier.”

“I was downstairs,” Carl tells him, propping himself up on the bed.

“Downstairs?” Negan asks, looking confused. “Where?”

“The rec room,” Carl responds. “Evan invited me.”

“Oh,” Negan responds, moving further into the room. “You have fun?”

“Yeah,” Carl shrugs. “I played air hockey.”

“Good for you,” Negan says, glancing at something in his hand. “Are you good at air hockey?”

“Not really,” Carl dismisses. “Not with…” He gestures to his eyes. “I was getting into it though. Felt good to let off some steam.”

Negan nods. “That’s not where I pictured you.”

“Is it okay?” Carl asks tentatively, dreading the answer, another handicap put on him.

“You can go wherever you want,” Negan shrugs, leaning against the wall. “There’s just a lot of testosterone in that room.”

Carl looks down at his hands, wondering if it’s okay that he enjoyed it there. “I wouldn’t want to hang out there all the time,” he admits. “It smelt bad. And it was dirty. But it felt good to be doing something. And have them not mind that I was there.”

“Pretty thing like you, you just need to watch your back down there,” Negan warns him.

“I don’t think they see me like that,” Carl dismisses, but the thought makes him blush.

“They might not have worked it out yet, but I think some of them probably do,” Negan tells him.

It’s a weird feeling, the thought of being objectified. He knows it’s something women put up with, Sherry’s talked about it, he’s seen it with some of the women he’s known over the last few years. Men can be gross, especially now there’s no laws in place to stop them. He still doesn’t quite put himself into the category of someone men would look at like that, but it’s almost exciting, being thought of the same way as real girls, even if it’s in the worst context possible.

“Anyway,” Negan says, holding up the small tube he has in his hands. “Sherry told me this is good for, uh, razor burns on intimate skin,” he reels off, clearly quoting her. He looks up at Carl. “Or, y’know, that mess you made of your pussy.”

“Cunt,” Carl corrects.

Negan raises an eyebrow at him. “What did you just call me?”

Carl gives him a weary look. “I don’t like the word pussy. People use it to mean weak. Girls aren’t weak. Say cunt.”

“Alright,” Negan agrees, tossing the tube to him. “Put this on your cunt.”

“I will,” Carl responds, looking at it. “Thanks.”

Negan sighs, pulling out the chair from Carl’s desk and sitting down. Carl watches him, wondering if he’s waiting for Carl to use it now, if he wants to watch. Negan doesn’t say anything, just looks around Carl’s room, the bare walls and concrete floor, the little window, the desk with all his cosmetics, all neatly arranged.

“This place is a shithole,” he says.

Carl sits up. “I tidied it,” he says, looking around. “I use all the things that are out, but I can put them back in the drawers.”

“I mean the room,” Negan dismisses. “You’re basically living in a cupboard.”

“I like it,” Carl insists.

“You like this?” Negan asks incredulously. He leans back in his chair, looking at Carl. “I can make room for you upstairs. You’ll have all those lovely things Sherry has in her room. You can use the lounge, it’s nice up there.”

Carl turns the little tube of ointment around in his hands. “Do you not like that I was downstairs?” he asks. Negan has never shown any concern about his living arrangements before, but suddenly it feels like he’s trying to put him back in that tower, on that pedestal. It’s not where Carl wants to be.

“I don’t give a fuck that you were downstairs,” Negan insists. “You want to hang out with the big boys, you want to carry that badass gun around and play air hockey, go ahead, I’m not trying to stop you. But you’re still my wife and you’re worth more than this.”

“I like being in the middle,” Carl tells him.

Negan looks at him, his expression thoughtful, and then his eyes fall down to Carl’s chest, his diamond. Carl looks down too, touching it, and he never made any specific promises when he accepted it, but he can’t claim he went into this blind. He can’t claim he didn’t want it. Doing this halfway was never an option. Carl feels like he’s only in every part of his life halfway though. He’s wearing women’s underwear but he’s never let anyone see it, not even the person he’s supposed to share everything with.

He looks back up at Negan who’s still considering him. “Did you make a decision yet?” he asks. “About me doing guard duty?”

“Not yet,” Negan responds.

Carl nods, looking down.

“That’s not a no,” Negan tells him. “I just need to think about some things. I know I can’t lock you up in here, but I need to keep you safe. That’s my duty.”

“I can keep myself safe,” Carl insists.

“No one’s above a shot to the head, kid,” Negan tells him.

Carl shrugs. “I survived.”

Negan looks at the hair falling over his scar. “You’re gonna run out of lives sooner or later.”

He sighs, bowing down his head, and Carl can see the genuine concern, the fear of Carl getting hurt. Negan has the power to stop Carl ever leaving this place again, to put him upstairs and keep him there, the other girls barely get to leave their floor. He could do that, but he knows that Carl would be worthless to him then, he wouldn’t want anything to do with Negan, would protest and kick up a fuss until he got out. And Negan cares about that. He cares if Carl wants to be with him. He cares if he loses him, whether to a bullet or contempt.

Carl’s vaguely aware that this gives him the power, but he doesn’t want to use it. He wants there to be a compromise, but halfway hasn’t worked out so great for him so far.

“There’s a home improvement store about an hour from here,” Negan says, looking up at Carl. “One of those warehouse places, they sell everything, it’s where we got most of the shit to make this place more presentable. My room, upstairs.” He looks around at Carl’s blank walls. “If you’re staying in here, it’s not looking like a cell.” He focusses back on Carl. “I can take you tomorrow if you want.”

“You’d let me go?” Carl asks. He assumed Negan would just send a team out there to bring back supplies.

“It’s your room,” Negan says. “You need to pick out your own pretty shit.”

Carl smiles. “Okay. Thanks.”

Negan nods, getting to his feet. “Put that stuff on your cunt,” he tells Carl, nodding down at the tube.

“I will,” Carl agrees.

“And give it back to Sherry when you’re healed up,” Negan says. “She uses it for friction burns on the inside of her thighs. In fact, she’s probably going to need some tomorrow.”

“I’ll share,” Carl tells him, trying not to imagine what Negan is clearly about to do to her. The vivid images play across his mind anyway, just like he’s sure they’re supposed to.

“You’re good at sharing,” Negan says appreciatively. “I’ll see you in the morning, kid.”

*

The drive to the home improvement store reminds Carl of Negan taking him back to Alexandria after he snuck into the back of that truck. Carl hasn’t left the Sanctuary since he returned there with Negan that day, hasn’t been outside the fence except to kill a couple of walkers, and it feels strange now to be out here in the world, what’s left of it, driving down empty roads. Part of him feels like this should be a trip home, back to Alexandria, but he’s not even sure he thinks of that as home anymore. Maybe that’s why Negan is bringing him here. Maybe if he decorates that room it means that he’s choosing it for good.

They arrive at the store and Negan’s right, it’s huge. There’s a couple of abandoned cars in the parking lot, the typical feeling of desolation as Carl steps from the cab of the truck, looking around. Always get a feel for your surroundings, assess any possible threats. It comes back to him like he’s never been away.

“Keep an eye on things out here,” Negan tells his men as he swings Lucille up onto his shoulder, turning to Carl and nodding towards the entrance.

As they enter, Negan starts to whistle, banging Lucille against the metal shelves. Carl can hear the walkers starting to move towards them from the depths of the store. He slides his knife out of its sheaf, readying himself.

“Today you get to kill things _and_ you get pretty shit,” Negan comments. “This must be your best day ever.”

“Pretty much,” Carl agrees, smiling at him.

He’s grateful that Negan is trusting him with this, isn’t making him wait outside while his men take care of the walkers. He knows that Negan would rather he be safe, looked after, protected, but he knows that’s not who Carl is, knew it when he offered him a place in the harem. Maybe they’re both idiots for hoping they could change another person’s expectations. Killing side by side feels like a pretty good place to find some common ground.

Negan takes out the first walker with a swing of Lucille, whooping with joy. “This is the best stress reliever,” he all but yells, the dramatic showman in him coming out, even if there’s only Carl here to see it. “Lucille was thirsty,” he says, clubbing another walker. “She has been patient but she wants her blood.”

Carl knows that it shouldn’t make him smile, that he shouldn’t feel affection for this, but he does. It’s only walkers, he tells himself. This is as healthy an outlet as Negan’s going to get.

He turns his attention to the walkers approaching him, driving his knife into the skull and moving on to the next one. He can feel the adrenaline lighting everything up, sharpening his senses. He moves systematically, dodging and luring and working his way through the walkers, aware of Negan at the other side of him, not least because he seems to be enjoying himself so much. This is the kind of couple’s activity that Carl could get used to.

When he kills the last walker in front of him he turns to Negan, panting and buzzed and full of energy. Negan looks back at him, Lucille dripping with blood, and he doesn’t say anything but Carl can see the appreciation on his face, can almost hear the word _badass_ falling from his lips. Carl stands a little taller, not afraid to let his pride show.

Negan turns away, scanning the aisles in front of them. “All the useful building shit’s gone but I don’t think people are so interested in interior design nowadays, that section should be nicely stocked for you,” he says. He grabs a cart, pushing it towards Carl. “I’m going to go look for stragglers. You go shopping.”

Carl walks with his cart down the aisles, picking out paint colours, grabbing himself a bedside cabinet, a cute lamp, a pack of wooden coat hangers, spending far too long in the soft furnishings section because he can’t resist touching everything, the fabrics and textiles calling him. He wants all of them but he forces himself to choose ones that match his colours, complement his design. He still ends up with far more blankets and cushions than he needs, but he can’t quite bear to part with them.

All the while he has the soundtrack of Negan wandering around the store, whistling and hitting things with Lucille. It makes him feel strangely at home. He likes doing things together.

When Negan eventually comes back to join him, Lucille resting on his shoulder like she’s worn out, Carl wants to grab him and kiss him. He grips the handle of the cart a little harder.

“I’ve run out of things to kill,” Negan tells him. “How are you getting on?”

“I’m nearly done,” Carl responds.

“You are so tactile,” Negan says as he looks over Carl’s cart, reaching out to run his fingers over a fake fur cushion shaped like a heart. He steps back, gesturing to the aisle. “Keep going. Get everything you want. We’re in no rush.”

Carl nods, moving forward, but he feels a little more self-conscious now that Negan is watching all his decisions. He puts a couple more bits and pieces in, a bedding set, a little pot to keep his makeup brushes in. Then he spies a small box, just the kind of thing he was looking for. It’s mirrored glass, a decorative design etched into it, and it’s beautiful. He places it carefully into his cart, looking at it nestled amongst everything else, and smiles, giving a little nod.

“I’m done.”

On the trip back to the Sanctuary, Carl spends the whole hour trying to visualise his finished room, the smile never leaving his face. When they carry everything upstairs, dumping it in the middle of his floor, he can tell it’s not going to be quite so easy to realise. They move all the furniture away from the walls and Negan stays with him to help him paint. The far wall, the one Carl looks at from his bed, they paint turquoise, the other three a soft pinky-peach colour. It’s not too girly, just a subtle glow, making everything feel soft and relaxing.

While Negan finishes up the main walls, Carl climbs up onto his chair, painting the exposed pipework on the turquoise wall a shiny silver. When it’s all dry he’s planning on hooking his coat hangers up here, making an open wardrobe of all his pretty camisoles and dresses, all his girl clothes. He wants them on display, not crumpled in drawers. They deserve better than that. Carl’s sick of compartmentalising it all. This is his space and it’s going to represent him.

He knows he can’t really put the room back together properly until the paint is dry, but he still strips the old plain bedding off his bed, picking out a patterned set instead, placing a soft fluffy blanket on top, along with a couple of throw cushions. It looks so decadent that he can barely stop himself from jumping straight in.

Negan hands him things from his shopping bags and Carl decorates the room, organising his makeup into the little containers he got, placing the two sheepskin rugs on the concrete floor, one by the desk to keep his feet warm, one by the bed to climb out onto when he gets up in the morning. None of it really sits right yet with the furniture moved back from the walls, the space in between cramped, but he can still see it all coming together. He puts the lamp on the bedside table, followed by the little mirrored box. He grabs his lube, the cherry lube that Negan gave him, and just as he suspected it fits perfectly into his box. He closes it up, placing it down triumphantly.

“Fancy,” Negan comments.

Carl grins. “Thank you. For all of this. I really love it.”

“Only the best for my girls,” Negan says.

Carl moves closer to him, looking him in the eye. “But thank you for letting me do it here.”

Negan nods, looking serious. “This is yours. I’m not going to take it away from you.”

He leans down, kissing him, and Carl leans into it, unable to resist the warmth of Negan’s body, his strong arms. Negan trails his fingers over Carl’s cheek as he pulls away, waiting for him to open his eye before he speaks.

“You can’t sleep here tonight though,” he says.

Carl frowns at him. “What?”

“I’m not letting you suffocate from toxic fumes,” Negan tells him. “This room has shit ventilation. You can stay in my room for a couple of nights.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Carl insists.

“Don’t worry, no payback, you don’t have to fuck me,” Negan says.

Carl looks around at his room, his new bed, but he has to admit that the fresh paint smell is heavy in the air. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay.”

He collects a few things and follows Negan to his room, sitting down on the bed. He watches Negan moving around, dumping his leather jacket down in the chair, kicking off his boots. Carl considers the bed and then looks down at himself.

“Can I borrow a T-shirt?” he asks. “To sleep in?”

Negan looks at him. “What’s wrong with the one you’re wearing?”

“I don’t like my boy things,” Carl admits.

“But my boy things are okay?” Negan asks.

“Yeah,” Carl says, a little embarrassed. “It’s different if you borrow them from your husband. That makes it cute.”

Negan nods, considering him, before turning around to his drawers. He pulls out a white T-shirt, tossing it to Carl who catches it, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and fingers. He looks back up at Negan.

“Can I borrow some boxers too?”

Negan looks like he’s about to comment but he turns back around, digging out some underwear and throwing them to him.

“Thank you,” Carl says.

Negan moves closer to him. “You hate your boy clothes?”

“Of course I hate them,” Carl responds, looking at him like he’s an idiot.

“Because you wear them all the time,” Negan points out.

Carl shrugs, shrinking in on himself. “Only on the outside.”

He can see Negan looking him up and down, considering what that means. He begins to pace, looking frustrated. “I wish you would just wear what you want. I promise you no one is going to say shit to you.”

“You don’t know what they’ve already said to me,” Carl responds.

Negan stops, looking at him, a fire in his eyes. “What did they say?”

“Nothing,” Carl dismisses, regretting bringing it up.

“Is Evan still giving you a hard time?”

“No,” Carl insists. “He’s really not. It’s fine. But I had to earn that. I can’t just walk out there in a dress.”

Negan licks his lips, still looking wound up.

“It’s okay,” Carl tells him. “I’m not ready for that anyway. I haven’t even tried one on.”

“Why not?” Negan asks.

“Because I think that might be a point of no return,” Carl admits. “I put the nightdress on and… It feels different. But that’s not supposed to be seen, it makes sense to take that off before anyone sees me. If I put on a dress…” He looks down, playing with Negan’s clothes in his hands. “I don’t know. If I put on a dress then it’s something that other people can taint. It’s something they can take away from me. It makes me vulnerable.”

“Girls aren’t weak,” Negan tells him, echoing Carl’s own words back at him.

Carl looks up at him with a tiny smile, feeling a sliver of hope. “No,” he agrees. “They’re not.”

Negan nods. “Get ready for bed,” he tells Carl. “You’ve had a busy day.”

“Yeah,” Carl agrees.

He puts the clothes down beside him, reaching for the hem of his own T-shirt before he catches himself. He looks up at Negan apologetically.

“I’m going to take a piss,” Negan says.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Carl strips out of his clothes as quickly as he can, not sure how much time he has. He pulls on Negan’s T-shirt, a little bigger than his own, and it does feel different to wearing his own clothes. It’s a stereotype, but women sleeping in their men’s clothing is cute to him. And maybe a little hot too.

He bundles his own clothes up so that the camisole and panties are hidden inside the jeans, the T-shirt on top to protect them. Negan’s right, Carl shouldn’t have to do this, certainly not in front of him, and Carl is embarrassed by his own need to keep hiding this. Negan has never given him any reason to doubt what kind of reception he’d get. He needs to be able to do it for himself first though.

Carl is back on the bed when Negan returns to the room. Negan walks to the windows, glancing at Carl before he begins to close the curtains. Carl watches him as he goes over to one of the shelves, picking up a book and sitting himself down on the sofa with a sigh, putting his legs up along the length of it. Carl frowns at him as he opens the book.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“No,” Negan responds, not looking up at him. “I’m going to read.”

“You can read in bed,” Carl responds.

“I can,” Negan agrees. “But I’m going to read here.”

Carl continues frowning at him until he finally looks up.

“I didn’t bring you here to fuck you,” Negan reminds him. “I’m just letting you use my bed. And you’re letting me read my book.”

Carl tugs the covers back, climbing beneath them, not sure why he’s so bothered by Negan’s indifference. His body reacts a certain way to being in this room though, it always has, and maybe he attached some romantic ideology to being invited to stay the night. He’s never been invited before, only passed out after sex to the extent that Negan can’t be bothered to move him.

“You don’t have to stay here,” Negan tells him. “You can go bunk with Sherry if you want, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Or you can go downstairs and sleep in the rec room.”

Carl looks at him, that last comment making him sure that Negan is deliberately giving him the cold shoulder, or maybe just displaying that he’s still pissed that Carl went down there. It’s a loaded statement either way and Carl feels irritated that it’s still being brought up when Negan is claiming he doesn’t care.

“I want to stay here,” he says.

“Okay then,” Negan agrees. “So stay.”

Carl settles down in the bed, turned on his side so that he’s facing Negan. He closes his eye but he feels restless and he ends up just watching Negan. He’s so at peace, focussed on the book, the only movement the turning of pages. It’s strangely hypnotic, almost lulling Carl to sleep by the time he finally puts it aside. Almost.

Negan turns off the lights as he moves closer to the bed, Carl shifting to make room for him, as though there’s not plenty of room already. When Negan slips beneath the sheets he joins Carl in the middle of the bed, a hand sliding to his thigh, a kiss brushed against his temple. Carl pushes himself closer, pressing their mouths together. It’s lazy and languid in that unrushed way that makes Carl feel like time is standing still. He presses his body against Negan’s, sliding their tongues together, waiting for Negan to press him down into the mattress, roll on top of him, but instead he pulls away, tucking Carl’s hair behind his ear.

“That’s not why you’re here,” he whispers.

“It’s what I want,” Carl tells him.

“Yeah,” Negan agrees. “But it’s not why you’re here.”

Carl’s not sure he understands the distinction or quite what the sticking point is, but he lets Negan pull him closer, lets him guide Carl’s head onto his chest. The rise and fall is steady, strong, and Carl closes his eye again, doesn’t let himself think, just lets himself feel.

He feels safe. He feels loved. He feels like a girl in a man’s arms.


	4. Chapter 4

Carl wakes up alone. He instinctively shifts across the bed, only opening his eye when he finds cold sheets instead of a warm body. He looks around, the room empty, Negan’s leather jacket and Lucille gone.

Carl closes his eye again, pulling the sheets tighter around himself. He presses his face into Negan’s pillow and it feels like a such a cliché but he really can smell him there, rich and earthy and brimming with testosterone. Carl hates that when he can smell it on himself, but in Negan it turns on some primal thing inside him, a need it’s difficult to deny. It’s so virile and Carl wonders if he could handle Negan all on his own, if he could keep up.

He lets himself indulge in the fantasy, this room being their room, this bed being their bed, having Negan to himself night after night. The images run through his head, erotic and strangely candlelit. They’ve never fucked near a candle. He wouldn’t mind trying it though, the warmth falling across Negan’s skin, the shadows highlighting his muscles.

Beyond that there’s nothing. If he was the only one Negan had then he wouldn’t be allowed to work, wouldn’t be allowed to mix with the other men. He would be lonely, isolated, no one to share any of it with. And he wouldn’t be enough for Negan, he knows that, has known that all along. He thought it would bother him but at the end of the day he likes filling some little specific need in Negan. They’re not interchangeable, any of them, and that fact only gives Carl a greater sense of self.

He climbs out of bed, going over to where he left his clothes last night, but they’re no longer on the floor. Instead he finds them neatly folded on top of the dresser. He lifts up his jeans and T-shirt, revealing the camisole and panties underneath. He’s imagines Negan picking them up off the floor and shaking them out of their crumpled state, treating them with care, because they’re valuable to Carl and that makes them precious. He imagines Negan’s strong hands on the delicate fabric, and he wonders if he pictured Carl wearing them as he put them away. The thought of it brings a flush to Carl’s face.

He's thought about it, thought about Negan’s fingers sliding dainty straps from his shoulders, thought about them fisting at silk and satin, thought about them slipping inside lace trimmed panties, sliding them down. He thinks about it as he holds them in his hand now and his cock is half-hard inside his boxers, inside _Negan’s_ boxers. Everything feels so intimate, so interwoven. He could climb back into the bed now, get himself off, but it feels disrespectful. Besides, that would be cheap and he wants the real thing. He lets that thought resonate for a moment.

He wants the real thing.

He gets dressed, the clothes feeling somehow different to him now that Negan has handled them. He carefully makes the bed, smoothing out the covers, making sure the corners are right. Negan likes the details. He likes everything to be well presented.

Carl opens the curtains, turning back to look over the room, checking that everything is neat and tidy. He gets the impression Negan wouldn’t like picking up after him again, even if it did give him a glimpse of his underwear. Once he’s satisfied he heads downstairs for some breakfast.

He keeps an eye out for Negan while he eats but he doesn’t expect to see him there. He gets up early, takes his responsibility to this place seriously, and also likes to get things out of the way so he has more time to play when the opportunity arises. Carl smiles to himself. Negan’s dedication to getting laid is really quite impressive.

Carl isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he can’t retreat to his own room. He wouldn’t dare treat Negan’s room as his own, even if Negan extended the invitation. He offered a bed but Carl’s not sure what else and Negan has business to attend to, Carl’s not going to put himself in the way of that.

He could go downstairs to the rec room but he’s not in the mood for that, even if it would probably be quieter at this time of day when most of the men are carrying out their various duties. He likes the casual atmosphere, what feels like a lack of expectations whereas sometimes upstairs it feels like expectations are all that matters, expectations he’s never been sure if he can live up to. He wants to be a girl, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever be able to pull it off and he’s not sure he can handle being surrounded by impossible standards.

The harem is what drew Carl to the Sanctuary in the first place though, women who had everything he wanted, whose example he might be able to follow. Maybe it’s time to explore that with his new outlook on life.

He climbs the familiar staircase but instead of going to Sherry’s room he makes his way to the lounge. He peers inside, nervous like the first time he ever snuck up here, the day Sherry took him under her wing and gave him that camisole. Sherry’s not there today but there’s two other girls, girls that Carl regrets he doesn’t know the names of. They look up from their card game as he steps into the room and he gives them a tentative smile which they both return before looking back down at their game. They accept his presence, don’t question that he belongs here like Negan’s men did when he gatecrashed their table, so Carl feels like it’s okay for him to explore.

He trails his hand along the arm of one of the luxurious sofas as he skirts the edge of the room, examining the artwork on the walls. He feels out of place here in his jeans and shirt and boots. He looks over at the other girls in their dresses, thinks about his own pretty girl clothes, how he’d love to relax in here wearing them, taking advantage of every decadent inch of the place, being a part of it.

It’s quiet and calm but subtly loaded, as though everyone here is constantly waiting for something to happen. Carl knows what that something is, knows his own anticipation and nervousness whenever Negan’s attention is turned his way. Carl wants him, he wants him all the time, but he can never be completely sure of where he stands or what Negan expects from him. He guesses it’s the same for everyone else here, a complex set of emotions with no easy resolution.

He looks at the bar, the various alcohol stored in crystal decanters, and there’s something so pretentious about it but Carl kind of loves the details. He likes beauty for beauty’s sake when practicality will do. It makes him feel spoiled and special and he likes that. He catches his own reflection in one of the shiny surfaces and he wants to be beautiful just for the sake of it. He wants to dress up and twirl and not hide behind a locked door.

He passes the girls playing cards and he wishes he were brave enough to ask their names, to introduce himself properly, but it seems rude to not know who they are after so long sharing a husband with them. He’ll ask Sherry later, he decides. He’ll get her to make him a cheat sheet.

In the corner of the room there’s a low cabinet, a potted plant on top of it beside a lamp. Carl reaches out, touching the leaves of the plant, contemplating the cabinet. He looks over his shoulder at the girls, not sure whether he’s looking for permission or if he’s hoping they won’t notice him so he can sneak a peek inside.

One of them, the redhead, looks up, giving a little nod. “Help yourself.”

Carl turns back to the cabinet, easing the door open. He’s not sure what he’s going to find inside, alcohol or sex toys or something more sinister. Instead it’s just games, more decks of cards and a few books. Carl crouches down, looking at them. He could do with a distraction, something to help him unwind and pass the time. He selects one that looks interesting and crosses the room back to the padded, high backed sofa, arranging the cushions around himself so that he can sit down.

The silence in the room feels companionable as Carl gets drawn into his book. After a while he takes off his boots and socks and puts his legs up along the length of the sofa, settling himself in. He leans into the soft cushions, wiggling his toes as he looks down at his mermaid nails, and he hasn’t felt this comfortable in a long time. Maybe he should be indulging in the perks of being one of Negan’s wives a little more. He’s always worried that if he accepts what Negan offers he won’t be able to ask for any of the other things he craves though. This is nice but it would never be enough.

Sherry enters the room, looking distracted until she spots Carl, a bemused smile on her face. “Hi,” she says. “What are you doing up here?”

Carl shrugs. “Reading. Relaxing.”

Sherry nods, crossing the room to the bar. “Good for you.” She holds up an empty glass. “Do you want one?”

“No, thanks,” Carl responds.

Sherry pours herself a generous measure of whiskey and comes to sit in the chair opposite Carl. He can’t help looking at the way she sits, her crossed legs, her high heeled shoes.

“That’s a cute colour,” she says, nodding towards his toenails.

“Thanks,” Carl says, looking down at them. “You can borrow it if you want.”

Sherry gives him a smile that Carl reads as _That’s really not my colour, sweetheart._ He smiles back at her, returning his attention to his book.

He hears distinctive footsteps in the hallway, deliberate and unrushed. He listens without looking up, Negan’s voice coming down the hall, the words unclear but the intention obvious. There’s only one reason he ever comes up here. There’s a small exchange and then he can hear Negan’s boots on the concrete floor again, coming towards the lounge.

“Well there you are,” he says to Carl as he stands in the doorway, cocking his head. “You sure look comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Carl agrees, looking down at his book.

Negan scans the room before moving further in, lifting Lucille to push Carl’s book up and see the title. “What are you, a tenth grade reading level?”

Carl lifts his gaze to give him an irritated look. Negan grins at him, pulling Lucille away.

“If you come up here trying to pick a fight all the time, people aren’t going to be glad to see you,” Sherry tells him.

“Excuse you?” Negan asks dramatically, spinning to face her. “I came in here to check on my darling wives, see if they needed anything, a drink, a foot massage…”

“I’ll take a foot massage,” Carl cuts in, giving him a challenging look.

“Yeah, I bet you fucking would,” Negan agrees, looking down at Carl. He moves towards Sherry, placing Lucille on the floor by her feet and tilting the handle towards her. “Hold onto Lucille for me. I always seem to have my hands full with this one.”

Sherry takes the bat, looking down at the barbed wire and swallowing uncomfortably. She takes a long swig of her drink as Negan sits down by Carl’s feet, pulling them into his lap. He stares Carl dead in the eye as he starts to rub his foot, slow and sensual, like foreplay. Carl can feel himself start to blush, tilting his head to make his hair cover his face, but Negan’s eyes still bore into him, watching for any tiny reaction, making Carl feel so exposed. He wants to pull his foot away, this whole thing feels far too intimate in front of other people and Carl’s thoughts are absolutely filthy, thoughts he knows aren’t going to be acted upon any time soon. Negan didn’t come up here for him.

“You wet yet?” Negan asks, his voice low, rumbling, so dirty that Carl bites down on his lip, trying not to whimper. Negan leans further forward, lifting Carl’s foot with him. “You should know better than to call my bluff by now.”

Carl looks over Negan’s shoulder to see Amber hovering nervously in the doorway. “I think Amber’s waiting for you.”

Negan glances over at her. “So she is,” he says joyously. He places a kiss on Carl’s toes and then deposits his foot back down on the sofa, standing up. “Room’s gonna be out of commission for a little while,” he tells Carl with an exaggerated wink as he goes over to retrieve Lucille from Sherry. “I’m sure you can entertain yourself for a while. Sherry’ll let you borrow her room if you need some privacy.” He looks pointedly down at Carl’s crotch and then smugly up at his face before turning around, sliding his arm around Amber’s waist to lead her from the room.

Carl shifts on the sofa, embarrassed and flustered. He grabs one of the cushions from beside him, placing it in his lap and staring down at his book as he though he can pretend none of that happened. Eventually he has to look up at Sherry, see her reaction. She shakes her head.

“There’s no shame in here.”

Carl nods his head, feeling like he understands perfectly. They’re Negan’s and he has this effect on all of them. It makes him feel a little less alone, a little less wrong. He doesn’t feel like he needs to have any secrets from these people and maybe that means no more secrets from Negan too.

He reads his book, the girls play cards, Sherry drinks her whiskey. Carl watches her as she gets up for a refill, feeling such fondness and concern for her. If he asked she’d say she had it all under control. Carl knows she’s strong, maybe she does, she’s not afraid of Negan in the same way the others are, takes advantage of her status like Negan’s men downstairs do.

There’s no shame in this room but there’s no judgement either so Carl just offers her a smile as she sits down, and the smile he gets in return is warm and genuine and maybe relieved.

When Amber appears back in the doorway, hair dishevelled and eyes still glassy, she looks at Carl. “Negan says the room’s free now.”

Carl nods at her. “Thanks.”

She scurries off down the hall, probably to get cleaned up. Carl thinks absently about the bed he made so neatly this morning, the sheets in disarray and soaked in sex.

“Is he working on rotation today?” Sherry asks.

Carl looks up at her. “No,” he dismisses. “He doesn’t want me. He’d send a far more disgusting message if he did.”

“Fair point,” Sherry agrees. “So what was that?”

Carl puts his finger in his book to save his place, turning on his side to face her fully. “He took me shopping yesterday,” he says, glancing over at the other girls, hoping his pride doesn’t sound like bragging, but he’s still glowing from the gesture. “Then we decorated my room. It smells of paint so he won’t let me sleep in there, he’s letting me stay in his.”

“Huh,” Sherry says in a way that Carl can’t decipher.

“He wouldn’t even fuck me last night though,” Carl says sulkily. “I think he’s trying to prove some point. I’m not sure which one.”

“The one where you’re not just an object maybe,” Sherry responds. “Though that might be a bit too ground breaking for him.”

“You’re not an object either,” Carl tells her. “He’d get bored with you pretty quick if you were.”

Sherry considers that for a moment. “You might have a point.”

Carl nods, looking up at her. “Do you want to see my room?”

Sherry smiles at him. “Sure.”

He leads her downstairs, unable to help glancing at Negan’s door as they pass it. He goes down the corridor to his own room and opens the door. He can smell the paint as they step inside the doorway but it seems to dissipate fairly quickly as they stand there. He wonders if he would be able to sleep here tonight but he’s not going to turn down Negan’s hospitality, doesn’t want to. Regardless of how he acted upstairs, making a point in front of the harem, Carl liked how it felt last night, liked how it felt this morning to find his clothes carefully folded, himself taken care of. It was a good feeling and if he can get away with indulging in it for one more night then he will.

“This is nice,” Sherry says.

“When the walls are fully dry I can arrange it properly,” Carl tells her.

“It’s very you,” Sherry says fondly.

Carl looks around. “Yeah?”

“Definitely,” Sherry agrees. “I’m glad he helped you do this. Even if it means his humanity’s showing a little.”

“He has humanity,” Carl insists.

“He does,” Sherry agrees. “When it counts.” She looks at him. “I’m glad he’s treating you how you deserve. I’d have to hurt him if he wasn’t.”

Carl smiles at her. “Likewise.”

Sherry nods, looking around the room again. “Are you coming back upstairs?”

Carl’s eyes fall on his drawers, the place all his girl clothes are hidden. They’ll be hung up from the silver pipes soon, proudly on display, and just the idea of that makes him feel freer. No more secrets, no more shame. He wants to be himself for the first time in his life.

“I think I’m going to stay down here for a bit,” he responds. “I’ll see you later.”

After she leaves Carl closes the door, grabbing one of the bags from the home improvement store and opening up his drawers. He moves some things aside, taking out the midnight blue dress that he’s so in love with, that he’s never dared try on. He puts it in the bag and then opens up the top drawer, his underwear drawer, the one he’s far more familiar with.

He searches through it, considering his options, his favourite pairs, the ones he feels good in. In the end he picks out a pair that are a similar colour to his dress, deep blue with black lace at the sides that overlaps the silk. There’s a little black bow on the front tying a shiny jewel in place. He nods to himself, putting them in the bag and moving over to his desk.

He fills the bag with everything he thinks he might need, taking out his _Cosmo_ magazines and searching through for the one with the hair tutorial he wants. He’s confident creating his own makeup looks now but he hasn’t practiced with his hair as much and he wants every detail to be perfect.

With his bag full he makes his way down the hallway, stopping at Negan’s door and listening. Negan said he could use the room again but he didn’t say he wouldn’t be in there too. Carl knocks, waiting for a response, but when he hears nothing he cracks the door open, peering inside. Empty.

Carl lets himself in, closing the door behind himself. The bed is neatly made again, like it hasn’t been touched since Carl left this morning. He puts his bag down and looks around the room for any sign that anyone’s been in here but there’s none. It’s a little disconcerting how Negan erases all trace of them. Or maybe it’s just a fresh slate, no overlap. They share but their time with Negan is still just between the two of them.

Carl empties his bag onto the bed, picking up the dress and placing it on the hanger, hooking it onto the rail of the bed. He straightens it out, admiring it. It should never have been shoved in a drawer but it’s never going back in there again. He grabs the makeup he brought with him, going over to the full length mirror by the side of the bed, the one that’s angled so that Negan can look into it while they’re fucking if he feels like it. The first time Carl caught him doing it he’d blushed and wanted to hide. Now he takes it as a compliment that Negan wants to see every inch of him while they writhe together.

He sits crosslegged on the floor in front of the mirror, lining up his makeup beside him. He smooths on his foundation first, wanting a perfect base to work with. Next is concealer, followed by highlighter, taking his time to get everything blended just right. He picks up his eyeshadow palette, using a darker shade of blue near his lashes, a lighter shade towards his eyebrow, using his finger to smudge it all together before he uses one of his tiny blushes to finish the job. Sometimes he’s glad he only has one eye and he doesn’t have to worry about making it symmetrical. He brushes on a couple of layers of mascara, puts a bit of blush on his cheeks. He paints his mouth with a rich pink, emphasising his naturally plump lips. Dick sucking lips Negan had called them once. Carl smiles at the idea of smearing lipstick down his cock.

He flicks through _Cosmo_ until he finds the page he wants, laying it beside him before brushing through his hair. He follows the tutorial, pinning up sections of his hair, tiny braids, adjusting the instructions to factor in his bangs. When he has everything in place he takes a sparkly hair clip, something he’s never used before, and fastens it into his hair. Only when he’s finished does he fully look at himself. Half his hair is falling down around his shoulders, the other half tied artfully back except for a little left free to frame his face and counteract the heavy bangs on the other side.

He stares at himself. He looks like a girl, he really truly does, he doesn’t think anyone would doubt it. He knows that he’s lucky to have features he can work with, so many things at his disposal to make believe with. It doesn’t feel like he’s making believe now though. For the first time it’s almost as though it could be real.

His eyes fall down on the boy clothes that he’s still wearing and it’s like a cruel reality check. He stands up, carefully pulling his T-shirt over his head, trying not to let it catch on his hair. His boots go next, then his jeans, until he’s stood in just his camisole and panties. It should look real now, but too much of his body is on display and it only shows the truth. He turns to face the dress hanging from the bed. There’s only one thing left to do.

He pulls off the camisole, tugs at his panties and lets them fall down his legs, stepping out of them onto the floor. He puts on the new panties first, adjusting himself inside them like he always does, trying to make his dick sit right, be less obvious. He hasn’t quite found the way to do it yet but he does as good a job as he can. He slides the dress down from the hanger, holding it in his hands, not quite daring to put it on. Everything changes when he does this. He feels like at this stage it can only change for the better though.

He unzips the side of it, stepping into the material that fans out around him. He slides his arms into it, adjusts it on his shoulders, pulls the zip up so that the dress is held snugly against him. He looks down at himself, fusses with the layers of fabric in the skirt, the V of the top section that overlaps slightly. He does that for a long time before he gets up the nerve to walk over to the mirror, and then it feels like another eternity until he finally looks up.

The dress gives a shape to him that he’s never had before. He looks like a woman. The way the waist it fitted, the skirt flowing outwards from it, it makes him look like he has curves. And the top, the way the material bunches, it gives the illusion that there could be something under it, that he’s maybe not completely flat. He runs his hands over, explores every angle, turns around and tries to see the back.

He loses himself to the beauty of it that he almost forgets to look at the big picture. He forces himself to still, taking it all in from head to toe. There’s nothing he sees that he doesn’t like. He touches the diamond, on full display in the V of the dress, and he feels proud, proud of who he is, proud of what he sees.

He turns around, looking at the mess he’s made of the room. Negan will not be impressed if he comes back to this. He gathers everything back into the bag, placing it all out of the way behind the mirror. He indulges in one more session in front of the mirror, mesmerised by his dress, before he sits down on the bed, resigned to wait.

His mind wanders to the last time he saw Negan, the foot massage upstairs, the words echoing in Carl’s head. _You wet yet?_ Because girls do that. Girls get wet. Carl doesn’t. He cranes to look at the drawer by the bed where the lube is kept, his eyes falling to the door beyond. He has no idea what Negan is doing, how long it will be before he gets back here, but he decides it’s worth the risk. If he’s doing this, he’s doing it properly.

He lays back on the bed, sliding his panties down his thighs, lifting the dress up over his waist so he doesn’t make a mess. He tries not to think about sex, to make this anything other than a practicality, but it’s impossible when his slicked up fingers touch his hole and he thinks about all the times Negan has done this to him, all the times he’s done it to himself, exactly why he’s doing it to himself now. He closes his eyes, resists the urge to bite down on his lip because he doesn’t want to ruin his makeup, doesn’t want lipstick on his teeth. He keens, his hips pushing upwards as he slides a finger inside himself. Don’t linger, he tells himself. Don’t savour it.

By the time he has three fingers inside himself, sliding wetly in and out, his cock is hard and straining up and he has no idea how he’s going to get it back in his panties. He pulls his hand out, looking down at the stickiness, struggling to his feet without touching anything so he can wipe it on his T-shirt, throwing it back in the bag. He pulls his panties back up, trying in vain to push his cock down, settling instead for pinning it in place with the waistband.

He replaces the lube and sits again on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, trying to just breathe. He can feel a wet patch growing in his panties but girls do that, girls make their panties wet when they’re turned on. Negan likes that kind of thing.

He has no idea how long he’s sat there when he finally hears Negan’s voice outside the door. Negan’s voice and someone else’s. Carl panics. He didn’t factor in that Negan might not come back here alone. He jolts to his feet, a hideous hit of adrenaline unleashing itself, and as the door opens Carl is tempted to throw himself on the floor behind the bed, but instead he just cowers behind one of the bedposts, trying to get a look at who’s coming in.

Negan enters, throwing a comment behind himself, and then his eyes fall on Carl. He slams the door shut behind himself, possibly in someone’s face, but he doesn’t look slightly concerned, his eyes fixed on Carl, his head tilting slightly as he tries to see around the post.

“Hi,” Carl says awkwardly.

“Hello,” Negan responds, looking somehow more shocked than Carl feels. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Carl says, edging out slightly. “It’s for you. I mean, it’s for me. But I wanted to share it with you.”

Negan nods, looking like he’s catching up. “So are you gonna come out and let me see?”

Carl takes a shuddery breath, his mouth dry and his hands shaking. This isn’t how he anticipated this playing out. He tries to regain that feeling he had in front of the mirror. That’s the Carl he wants Negan to see. His eyes fall to the door.

“Is…”

“I’m sure they’ve fucked off by now,” Negan dismisses. He moves a little further into the room but keeps his distance, letting Carl come to him.

Carl glances down at himself, letting the dress give him the confidence he needs, and he steps out, not quite daring to look Negan in the eye as he moves into the space beside the bed, presenting himself. Nothing happens for a moment as Carl’s heartbeat thunders in his chest and he feels like he might pass out.

“You are fucking beautiful,” Negan says, his voice wrecked and full of awe.

Carl looks up, confused, because the reaction is so honest and visceral and Carl doesn’t feel like he deserves it. Negan’s face matches his voice and Carl has to look away, studying himself, unable to equate the praise with himself.

“Carl,” Negan says.

Carl looks at the diamond on his chest to give him courage and then meets Negan’s eyes again, forcing himself to hold it this time.

“You are beautiful,” Negan says again, emphasising every word, making them show on his face, in his eyes.

Carl feels dizzy, everything about this so unreal. He thought Negan might make some crude comment, might grab his ass, might lift up his dress and pull down his panties, but he didn’t expect adoration. He’s not quite sure what to do with it.

“Can I..?” Negan gestures to the space between them and Carl nods.

Negan rests Lucille down against the table, leaving her behind as he crosses the room, going to join Carl. He places two fingers under Carl’s chin, tilting his face upwards, and Carl can see Negan’s eyes moving over his face, taking in the difference the makeup makes. He strokes his thumb over Carl’s cheek, shakes his head slightly with something like awe.

“Why would you hide this?” he asks. “Why would you ever hide this?”

Carl pushes himself forwards, up onto his tiptoes, smashing their mouths together. He wraps an arm around Negan’s neck, the other hand touching Negan’s face, fingers scraping over his beard, feeling needy and hungry, wanting to be accepted, wanting to be devoured. It’s a kiss of urgency, of desperation, of everything he’s repressed and pushed down so far inside of him suddenly bubbling to the surface. His heart is thundering, his lungs burning as he messily presses their mouths together, no design, just a clash of lips and teeth and tongue.

Negan’s hand slides back into his hair, cradling him, encouraging him to lean back as he kisses him. Carl’s mouth falls so easily open to him, surrendering everything as Negan slides his tongue deep and smooth into Carl’s mouth, fucking him with it, making Carl think of being on his knees, of having Negan’s cock slipped past his lips like this, the heaviness on his tongue and the smell of him stuck in his nostrils. He wants to kneel in this dress. He wants to have his pretty hair pulled.

Negan eases him back with a final wet swipe over his bottom lip and Carl keeps his eye tightly shut, taking in shuddering breaths. One of Negan’s hands slides to his waist, to the exaggerated waist of his dress, and he can feel himself being looked at, appraised. He makes a noise in his throat, trying to move forward, bury himself in Negan’s body if not in another kiss, but Negan’s hand holds him firm.

“You really do look amazing,” Negan says.

“I want you to fuck me,” Carl says, because it’s easier to deal with than this.

“We’ll get there,” Negan assures him. “But let’s just slow it down a little bit. I want to enjoy every second of this. I want to enjoy every inch of my girl.”

Carl opens his eye at that, looks up at Negan, his dark eyes, his pleased face, the affection that looks so easy. That’s acceptance, isn’t it?

“And you didn’t get all dressed up like this for a quickie,” Negan says confidently. “You work with me and I can make every fantasy come true. Even the ones you didn’t even know you had. Sound good?”

Carl makes an awkward gesture, half a nod, half a shrug. He wants to go back to kissing. Kissing he understands.

“Don’t be so self-conscious,” Negan tells him. “You’ve checked yourself out in the mirror, right?”

Carl nods, memories of posing from every angle running through his head.

“So then you _know_ you look good,” Negan states, no room for negotiation.

Carl smiles to himself, even as his cheeks blush a deeper red. “Yeah,” he admits.

“Hell yeah,” Negan agrees. His other hand goes down to Carl’s waist and he holds him at arm’s length, looking him over. “Give me a twirl.”

Carl rolls his eye. “I’m not giving you a twirl.”

“Carly,” Negan says, the word sounding so natural that Carl doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t question it. “We both know you want to.”

Carl smiles, amused. He looks up at Negan, at the lipstick smudges on his mouth, feeling like he’s claimed him, like he has a right to this, and he’s not going to deny himself anything. He takes a step back, Negan’s arms falling away, and Carl likes the feeling of standing on his own, of not hiding behind a bedpost or Negan’s possessive hands. He spins, the dress billowing out around him, fluttering against his thighs. It’s such a freeing feeling, the rush of air, the way the room blurs around him as though he’s at the centre and nothing else matters.

When he stops he grins at Negan, feeling dizzy in the best way. Negan nods appreciatively. Carl moves closer to him again, rubbing his thumb over Negan’s mouth. Negan catches his hand as he goes to move it away, placing it on his shoulder. Carl adjusts his grip to hold onto him as Negan’s own hand skims over the fabric of the dress, down his side, right to the hem. He plays with it, the material tickling against Carl’s leg, making him shiver.

Negan’s hand slides underneath, to the back of his thigh, edging it’s way slowly upwards, and Carl sways towards him, feeling his body flush at the thought of Negan’s fingertips reaching his panties. He stops just short though, pulls his hand out, like he doesn’t want to play all his cards at once. Negan lives for the big reveal.

“You want to get a little more comfortable?” he asks, nodding towards the bed.

Carl glances behind himself and shakes his head, pulling Negan back into a passionate kiss, dragging their mouths together. There’ll be plenty of time for him to be on his back. He imagines Negan, drawing it out, exploring everything he can before he finally lifts the dress. Negan enjoys taking his time, teasing things out, riding that knife edge of frustration before finally letting it pay off. Carl’s not going to pretend he doesn’t benefit from that trait greatly, but Negan said he could have his fantasies too, and Carl might not know how to ask, but maybe he can take.

He grabs Negan by the lapels of his leather jacket, turning and moving backwards until he slams his back against the wall, pulling Negan up flush against him, their teeth knocking together. Negan pulls away, raising an eyebrow, and Carl can’t do anything but stare at him, open mouthed, panting.

“So you are not interested in taking it slow,” Negan says, a comment rather than a question.

Carl shakes his head, wanting desperately to just kiss him again, to not have to talk everything to death.

“You are such a horny, volatile little bag of hormones,” Negan says. “I think it’s my favourite thing about you.”

Carl’s eye flicks down, embarrassed. He knows Negan doesn’t mean it as an insult, believes him when he says he likes it, but he also knows that Negan just had his fill of sex with Amber a couple of hours ago and wasn’t expecting to come back to his room and have to deal with a teenager in a dress craving validation that they’re beautiful.

“We can slow down,” he agrees.

Negan leans in, his whole body pressing Carl’s into the wall, his breath falling over his face. “I can keep up,” he assures him.

They kiss again, Negan’s mouth covering Carl’s so perfectly that he can’t breathe, whimpering against Negan’s tongue that fucks into his mouth. Negan doesn’t even have to keep up, Carl thinks. He just has to push Carl over the edge and buy himself some time. He’s getting perilously close. Negan pulls back, mouth moving down to Carl’s neck, licking wetly, sucking on the flesh, and Carl arches his back into it, looking over Negan’s shoulder at the bed.

All he has to do is ask, Carl thinks as Negan’s hand slides under his hair, cradling the back of his neck as he sucks on the juncture to his shoulder. Just ask, as Negan’s other hand grazes over his ass, making the fabric of his dress tickle the back of his thighs. _Ask._

“Carry me.”

He says the breathy words with his eye squeezed tightly shut and part of him hopes that Negan didn’t even hear them. Negan lifts his head though, resting against Carl.

“Bridal style?” he asks.

The fact that Negan’s mind went to romantic for some reason makes Carl laugh and he opens his eye, looking at him. He shakes his head, puts all his want into his expression. “Not bridal style.”

Negan grabs him around the waist, lifting him up and slamming him against the wall, pressing his own hips in tight to hold him there. Carl instinctively wraps his legs around Negan’s waist, holding onto his shoulders tightly. He’s always enjoyed the fact that he’s physically smaller than Negan, loves being surrounded by him, overpowered, and right now he can feel all that strength holding him up, literally taking his burden. He’s not dead weight in Negan’s arms though, he has the strength to hold himself up, but this is where he wants to be, and that makes it far more powerful.

“Do you want me to fuck you like this?” Negan asks.

Carl looks down at their bodies, trying to work out the logistics, the angles. “Can you do that?” he asks.

“I am positive I can make it happen,” Negan smoothly.

Carl thinks about it. He likes the way this feels, likes being the dirty girl, the horny girl, the slutty girl fucked up against a wall. There’s power in that. But not tonight. He wants to be the princess. The dirty, slutty princess.

“Bed,” he says.

Negan grabs him under his thighs, supporting him as he moves away from the wall. Carl holds on, impressed by how surefooted Negan is as he moves over to the bed. He throws them both down widthways across it, landing on Carl and knocking the wind out of him, but Carl can’t do anything but surge his hips upwards, craving to be somehow closer.

Negan kisses him again, slow and steady and so consuming, pressing his own hips down against Carl. The dress is a mess, lifted up by Carl’s legs still wrapped around Negan, but everything is covered, and Carl feels unashamedly sexual but somehow still ladylike. It’s a feeling he’s starting to realise he loves. Discovering things like that about himself makes all his self-consciousness pale in comparison, making him feel like he’s finally connecting with things he’s been denied for so long.

Negan slides a hand up inside his dress, fingertips skimming over the outside of his thigh before finding his underwear, the lace panel at the side. He doesn’t go for his cock or his ass, doesn’t make it gratuitous, just slides his thumb beneath the fabric and holds his hip as he carries on kissing him.

Carl pushes his leather jacket back off his shoulders, Negan shrugging out of it and tossing it aside. Carl runs his hands over the flesh of his arms, feeling the muscles tense and shift as he holds Carl. He trails his hands down the front of Negan’s T-shirt, shifts his hips as he tries to get some space between them, shoving a hand against Negan’s crotch and squeezing him through his pants. He’s hard, clearly more than caught up, and Carl finds himself a little disappointed, having indulged a brief fantasy of sucking him off to get him ready, feeling that familiar sense of achievement at the sensation of him hardening against his tongue.

Negan pulls away, his arms either side of Carl’s body as he looks down at him, Carl’s hand still pressing down against his hard cock. “Where do you want it?”

Carl shrugs, staring at him stupidly, because he wants everything, all at once, and he doesn’t want to have to wait for any of it.

Negan leans down, lips brushing his cheek before he lines his mouth up with Carl’s ear. “Hold that thought. Let me get the lube.”

He goes to get up but Carl grabs at him, stops him moving. “I don’t need it,” he insists. Negan opens his mouth to say something but Carl just shakes his head frantically. “I’m wet. You make me wet.”

Negan’s eyes scan down his body, his face full of scepticism, clearly wondering if the line between fantasy and delusion has been crossed. Carl shuffles beneath him, pulling the back of his panties down to reveal his ass but keeping the rest of them in place, pinning down his cock. He takes hold of Negan’s hand, guiding it to his slick hole, lube leaving a sticky trail on his flesh where it’s leaked out.

Carl watches the realisation wash over Negan’s face as his finger slips over Carl’s hole, his expression fascinated and impressed and turned on. “You really are wet,” he says, a catch in his voice that Carl feels proud to be able to put there.

“Got nice and wet for you,” Carl agrees in his sweetest voice.

Negan looks up with dark eyes, all but growling at him. “You are going to be the death of me, kid.”

Carl smiles at him unashamedly. “Think you can manage to fuck me first?”

Negan kneels up, tugging his shirt over his head. He reaches down, unbuckling his belt, pulling down the zipper of his pants. As he shoves his pants and boxers down, revealing his hard cock, Carl can’t take his eye off it.

“Can I suck it first?” he asks. “Just a little?”

“If you insist,” Negan smirks, hopping off the end of the bed and getting naked.

Carl takes the opportunity to put his legs down, arranging the skirt of his dress around himself. His feet hang off the bed, his head perilously close to the other side, and he thinks about moving so that he’s laid on it properly, head on the pillows, but he likes the precariousness and he doesn’t want to move now that he has his dress looking all pretty. He plays with his hair, feeling the way it fans out around him as Negan climbs back onto the bed, straddling him, and he feels truly like a princess, pretty and spoiled and empowered.

He tilts his head back, parting his lips as Negan hovers above him, hand idly stroking his cock. Carl reaches out, encouraging his hips forwards, Negan lowering himself to guide his cock into Carl’s mouth. Carl moans around it, closing his lips, sucking it in, the heat and the solidity that makes him feel so full and weighted down, as though he might float away without it. Negan pulls back, his cock falling from Carl’s lips, and Carl make a distraught sound, lifting his head from the bed.

“You said a little,” Negan states.

Carl gives him an unimpressed look, opening his mouth to complain, but Negan just smirks at him, slowly stroking his own cock. Carl relents, laying back and then licking his lips slowly, deliberately, tracing his tongue around, making them wet and shiny. He watches Negan’s eyes following along.

“Okay,” Negan breathes, guiding his cock forwards again.

Carl hums around him as his mouth is filled again, closing his eye for a moment and letting himself just feel. Negan keeps his thrusts slow, shallow, letting Carl lift his head and come to him. Carl bobs up and down, sucking him in, greedy and lacking finesse, but he worked out a long time ago that Negan likes that, likes when Carl just enjoys himself and takes what he wants.

He opens his eye to look up at Negan, his flushed face and open mouth staring down at his cock disappearing between Carl’s lips. His chest is heaving with every breath, his body tight with exertion. He reaches down, fingers stroking over Carl’s hollowed cheek, and then he shakes his head, pulling himself out of Carl’s mouth. Carl whines, Negan’s dick slick with saliva, a strand falling over Carl’s chin. He lifts a clumsy hand to wipe it away but Negan gets there first, swiping his thumb over it.

“Such a good look on you,” Negan says, moving back down his body. He encourages Carl’s legs apart so he can kneel between them. “Now let’s get you nice and fucked.”

“Okay,” Carl agrees. He craves the sensations, the intimacy, Negan’s body against his own. He craves it with his animal instincts, needing to get off, needing to just feel.

Negan reaches under his dress, fingers gripping the top of his panties. Carl shakes his head, putting his hands up to stop him.

“Leave them on,” he says. “I like them on.”

Negan’s eyes flick down and then he settles himself more firmly on top of Carl. “Alrighty,” he agrees. “Legs up then, sweetheart.”

Carl shifts himself, adjusting his weight, lifting his legs up to wrap around Negan’s back, arching his hips upwards like he knows Negan needs them. Negan tugs the panties down a little more at the back, shifting closer, his fingers going to press against his wet hole. Carl keens, lifting his hips, wiggling slightly. Negan presses a finger inside, all the way in, Carl’s body offering no resistance. It’s clearly what Negan was looking for because he slides his finger out, grabbing his cock and lining himself up.

Negan holds his gaze as he pushes himself into Carl’s body, his face awash with minute gestures as he eases himself in deep, the pleasure and the need laid bare. Carl stares at him, his body in complete surrender, his mind feeling like cotton wool in his head. There are so many thoughts just out of his grasp but he doesn’t need them right now so he lets them go, lets himself simply feel.

Negan drags back his hips and pushes in deep again, a little faster this time, making Carl moan and arch his back, gripping hold of Negan’s shoulders. As Negan buries himself he looks down at Carl like he really wants to say something, but instead he starts thrusting into him in earnest, each piston of his hips going so deep that it ricochets Carl on the bed. He reaches one hand up above him, gripping the edge of the mattress to steady himself, hooking his ankles together behind Negan’s back.

Negan presses forward, his dick staying deep inside Carl’s body, rocking firmly into him like he’s trying to break through to something new, open up some untouched place inside him. Carl tips his head back, overwhelmed, unable to handle the intense look in Negan’s eyes along with the sensation of being split open, mined, taken apart.

Negan reaches between their bodies, a hand snaking beneath Carl’s skirt, finding his cock that’s still pinned in place by the waistband of his panties, just where Carl wants it. Negan touches him, touches him just like Carl showed him he likes it, pressing down on the shaft of his cock, playing his fingers over the head, into the slit, sending electric shocks through his body.

Carl moans and writhes and grips harder to the bed, hand fisting into the covers, the fingernails of his other hand digging into the flesh of Negan’s shoulder. He cries out and tries to hold back but his body is wound so tight, desperation coursing through him from the first moment Negan looked at him like he was perfect, like he was worthy, like he wore that dress as though he were born to it.

“Good girl,” Negan whispers into his ear. “Go with it. Unravel for me.”

Carl whimpers, rocking his hips up into Negan’s, driving his cock deeper, harder. Negan’s encouragement, his permission, it has Carl instantly teetering right on that edge, no desire to hold back from himself, from Negan, his body starting to come apart beneath him. He closes his eye, crying out, feeling the pressure low in his gut, the familiar sensation that he can no longer associate with anything but Negan.

Negan stays buried right in that perfect spot, his cock rocking against the limit of what Carl can take, his other hand playing so perfectly over the head of his cock, sliding slickly with Carl’s precome, giving him that sensation again of being wet, Negan making him wet, Negan fucking him without having to waste time getting him ready, and Carl feels it all shatter through him, his entire body straining and out of control as he comes over Negan’s fingers, comes through their constant pressure against him, comes and moans and clings and nearly knocks Negan right off him with the force of it.

He forces his hips to keep moving as his orgasm subsides, leaving him shaky and overstimulated, forces himself to keep going because Negan hasn’t come yet and Carl needs it, is so used to this feeling of working himself past the point where he feels like he can’t stand it, wanting to make Negan feel good too, knowing this isn’t over until they’re both a sticky, boneless mess.

Negan places his hands firmly on Carl’s hips, pressing painfully down, pinning him to the bed so that he can’t move. “That’s enough,” he says.

“But…” Carl starts helplessly, looking down at their bodies, towards the point where Negan is still inside him. He can’t see it but he can feel it, can’t feel anything else as his body reels.

Negan shakes his head. “Take a breather. I’m going to work you up all over again. Girls love multiples and I like my girls satisfied.”

Carl stares at him, trying to process the words, knowing that they make sense, but his whole body is screaming enough and all he wants is Negan’s orgasm. He wants to rest and be held and be told how good he was. He doesn’t think he’ll believe it until Negan comes.

Negan leans down over him, the move making his cock shift inside Carl and Carl keens, tensing around him, seeing the sensation flutter over Negan’s face.

“I know you can do multiples, Carly, just like the rest of them,” Negan says. “Isn’t that right?”

“I…” Carl begins, feeling like an incoherent mess. It’s not as though Negan wringing his body of orgasms is a new concept, but right now he’s not sure he can handle anything more than the new sensations he’s already battling with. He feels so overwhelmed that he can feel his eye tearing up and it’s so humiliating that he closes it, trying to catch a hold of himself.

“Shhh,” Negan soothes, brushing his lips over Carl’s. “You’re not ready to be done. We already agreed this wasn’t a quickie. All your fantasies, remember? And any new ones you come up with along the way.

Carl opens his eye, taking a breath, nodding at him. “But you could come,” he says, an edge of pleading in his voice.

Negan smiles indulgently at him. “Believe me when I say you are reward enough, baby.” He shifts back a little, lifting Carl’s dress. “We’ll get there,” he says, sliding two fingers through the come on Carl’s stomach. He lifts them up to his mouth, sucking them clean as he hums happily. He looks up, meeting Carl’s eyes. “Don’t want to mess up that pretty dress,” he says, dipping the fingers back down to collect some more. “Well, not quite yet.”

He lifts the come covered fingers up to Carl’s mouth and Carl parts his lips without even questioning it. He lets Negan slide his fingers inside, sucks on them eagerly, tasting himself but tasting Negan beneath it. Negan watches him, making an appreciative noise, sliding his fingers in deep, fucking his mouth with them briefly before pulling them out with a little pop, going to collect some more. He shares it between himself and Carl, taking it in turns, feeding Carl the last little remnants. As he pulls his fingers away he replaces them with his mouth, swiping his tongue inside, moving it around like he’s trying to find every taste of him in there. Carl melts beneath him, letting his body go liquid, lying there panting when Negan finally pulls away.

“I want to ask you a question,” Carl says.

“Go ahead,” Negan agrees.

Carl pulls him down, kissing him again, loving how unrushed it all feels now, even with Negan’s hard cock still inside him, and he wonders how Negan can possibly have that much control over himself. Carl has been known to fuck himself against a pillow when he’s horny and alone. Negan is literally inside a hot, wet body and his hips barely falter. Carl stretches beneath him, partly because his body craves it, loosening up from the strain of his orgasm, and partly because he wants to watch Negan’s reaction as his cock shifts inside him, as his body shows just how open and relaxed it is. He sees Negan suck in air through his teeth, feels his hips stutter, but he doesn’t give in. Carl is impressed, but part of him wants to taunt him a little more.

“You had a question,” Negan prompts.

“Mmmm,” Carl agrees. “Are you only so good at that because you practice a lot?” Carl asks. “I mean, how much is natural talent and how much is just… experience?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Negan tells him. “You’re brand new to this but you were a hell of a quick study.”

Carl gives him a look. “But you taught me everything I know so obviously you taught me to do it how you like it. That doesn’t make me objectively good.”

“That’s not true,” Negan tells him. “You have your own moves. You worked out your own things. I can’t take full credit for you.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Carl points out.

“I practice a lot,” Negan agrees. “A lot.”

“Before as well?” Carl asks, feeling brave.

“Yeah,” Negan says, a faraway look in his eyes. “I practiced a hell of a lot more than was right before.”

Carl watches him, the obvious nostalgia and guilt, and he can guess what’s behind it. He knows nothing about Negan from _before_ , doesn’t know who he was before he became the leader of the Saviours, but there’s a tiny crack of vulnerability that tells Carl he was flawed and he was instinctive and that he’s not proud of any of it. It’s nothing really, just a feeling, but it makes him feel closer to Negan in a way maybe no one else has managed.

Negan shifts his hips back, sliding his cock out, and Carl is scared that he’s going to leave, that he’s pushed too far, but Negan just straightens Carl’s dress, settling down atop him with a sigh.

“You want oral?” he offers. “Fingering? You just wanna make out?”

Carl shrugs. “Whatever you want?”

“I want to make you so horny that you forget your own name,” Negan tells him gruffly.

“Then any or all of the above,” Carl responds.

Negan reaches up, playing with Carl’s hair, arranging each strand with care. Carl watches his face, the concentration, and he wonders where his mind really is.

“Are you just making me pretty so you can wreck me again?” Carl asks.

Negan looks down at him, smirking. “You know me so well.” His hand slides to the side of Carl’s face, cradling his cheek as he leans down to press a firm but chaste kiss against his lips. “But I haven’t even started to wreck you yet. That was just the warm up.”

Carl smiles at him, his body responding to the promise, hairs standing on end as he feels the steady thrum of blood already making its way back towards his cock. Negan leans down again, easing Carl’s lips open with his own, sliding his tongue inside. It’s all slow and breathless and decadent, the way Negan’s tongue moves against his own making Carl melt into the mattress with a helpless, needy sound.

Sometimes he can’t even comprehend the power Negan has over him, the way Carl’s pretty sure he’d do anything for him, inside this bedroom or anywhere else in the world. He wants to please Negan, but more than that Negan has become ingrained in him, like gravel in a skinned knee, and Carl can’t always find a way to separate himself. Most of the time he doesn’t want to. He needs this, the validation as much as the sexual gratification, the attention and the approval, because this feels like the right place to be. He knows all the terrible things Negan has done, some of them he’s done to Carl, and yet his new world order makes a kind of sense. He doesn’t want his family treated badly, doesn’t want them to suffer, but maybe there’s a mutual respect to be found. It’s a little too close to a fairytale but he has to believe that there’s an ending to this that doesn’t involve one of the two people he needs most in this world dead.

Negan pulls back, sucking on Carl’s bottom lip before his mouth grazes over Carl’s cheek, kissing along his jawline. Carl sighs, arching his body, tipping back his head. His slides his fingers through Negan’s hair, rests his hand there as Negan kisses his way down Carl’s neck, a fluttery sensation that’s too light, making Carl shift restlessly beneath him. Negan bares his teeth, nibbling at the flesh, and Carl shivers, his hips lifting upwards. He’s not at an angle to feel if Negan is still hard, if he’s into this or just buying time, but Carl’s own cock is already halfway there, feeling swollen and sensitive and desperate for attention.

Negan kisses his way down the centre of Carl’s chest, the deep V in his dress. He pauses, lifts his head, adjusts the diamond necklace to sit flush. “This really looks good on you,” Negan says appreciatively, leaning down to kiss it. He moves back a little further, taking in Carl as a whole, from the hair to the makeup to the diamond to the dress to the panties beneath. “This all looks good on you,” he says. He lifts his gaze to meet Carl’s. “You believe me when I say you’re beautiful, right?”

Carl nods his head. He might question the accuracy, his own self-doubt not quite able to believe what he sees when he looks in the mirror, not when he knows the truth beneath it that he feels must be all too apparent to anyone who really looks at him. But he believes that Negan is genuine in his praise and that’s all that really matters. For now, that’s enough.

“Good,” Negan says, moving backwards to get to his feet.

“What are you…”

Negan doesn’t respond, just grabs Carl behind his knees and drags him to the edge of the bed. His ass is halfway hanging off, his legs dangling over, feet touching the floor. He feels off balance and he tries to sit up but Negan places his hands firmly on his shoulders, shoving him back down. Carl’s dress is already hitched upwards by the move but Negan reaches down, lifting it properly, draping it upwards to reveal his crotch, his panties, his stomach.

“You still need these on?” he asks. Carl nods. “I can work with that.”

Carl watches him, confused, not even sure what to ask now as he dangles over the edge of the bed, exposed and open. Then Negan lowers himself down onto his knees. Carl feels a strange sensation in his stomach. He’s never seen Negan on his knees, not like this, on the floor, Carl raised up above him. He’s knelt on the bed to get a good position, or to straddle Carl and tease him, but Carl’s never seen him like this. He feels a surge of power but he has no idea what to do with it.

Negan strokes his fingertips up the inside of Carl’s thighs, making him keen as he opens them wider, just the image of Negan knelt between his legs making him want to give up everything. Negan uses his lips to follow the same path, kissing his way up one thigh towards his panties, lips dragging over the flesh, the occasional flicker of tongue. When he gets to the top he places a single kiss on the material of Carl’s panties, right in the centre, and then he moves on to the other thigh, starting at the knee and edging his way higher. Carl whines, biting down on his lip, trying to have enough self-control not to thrust his hips upwards into nothing, grateful for the lack of leverage the position gives him or he’d probably be helplessly humping air right now.

When Negan reaches the top again he kisses his way up Carl’s panties, up the length of his silk covered cock, and Carl’s not sure how to feel about that, doesn’t want attention drawn to his shaft, but he can’t deny how good it feels, especially through such delicate fabric. Negan gets to the waistband, taking the little bow between his teeth and tugging it backwards, letting go of it so that it snaps against the head of Carl’s cock. Carl gasps, not even sure if it’s pleasure or pain, not sure he can tell the difference anymore.

Negan kneels up a little higher, resting his weight against the bed, grabbing hold of Carl behind the knees again and lifting his legs, draping them over his shoulders. Carl shifts closer, lifts his hips upwards, not even caring how on display he is, Negan’s face right there between his legs, the place he’s most self-conscious of. Negan wouldn’t be there unless he wanted to be, and suddenly Carl doesn’t want him to be anywhere else.

Negan lowers his head, kissing over Carl’s stomach, a tickly feeling that makes him squirm. Negan holds his sides, keeping him still, and then he does it again, thumbs rubbing over the sensitive flesh, making him want to giggle, but just before he loses it Negan’s tongue flicks against the head of his cock and he feels nothing but sharp, searing pleasure, his hips bucking upwards as he cries out. Negan’s hands slide to hold him there instead, licking the head of his cock again, a little firmer this time, breathing deliberately over it as he edges back.

Carl speaks, or he tries to speak, but to his own ears it’s nothing but a string of incoherent words. He tries to lift his hips again, Negan holding him down so firmly Carl’s sure they’ll be bruises shaped like Negan’s fingertips tomorrow. Carl imagines them, imagines pressing into them, imagines getting off to the ghost of Negan’s hands having total control of him, Carl totally at his mercy.

Negan licks him again, circling the head now, teasing him by never quite dipping into his slit, a promise that goes denied over and over again. Carl’s body is tight with tension, trying to find some kind of relief, his back arching as his hips are held in place. He reaches up above himself, the edge of the bed further away from him now as he lies sprawled halfway off the other end, but with his arms fully extended he can reach, gripping hold at the place where it threatens to disappear from him, his whole body pulled taut with the effort, giving him something to put his energy into.

Negan takes the head of his cock into his mouth, sucks it like he’s trying to suck out poison, a constant pressure that Carl feels right up in his skull. He cries out, just about to lose it when Negan’s teeth catch so very deliberately at that exquisite spot right on the underside, making his whole body jolt. He digs his heel into Negan’s back, not sure if he’s asking him to stop or urging him on. Negan edges back, licking over the spot he hurt, moving his tongue upwards and pressing the tip into Carl’s slit, wiggling it around. Carl whines, gripping the bed harder, his whole body stuttering.

Negan eases Carl’s legs from his shoulders, placing his toes back down on the ground as he lifts his head. He plants his hands either side of Carl’s body, raising himself up, leaning over him. Carl is panting, his body coated in sweat, the dress sticking to him, and he stares open mouthed at Negan before his eyes inevitably travel downwards, over his chest, over his tattoos, to his hard, glistening cock. Carl licks his lips. He wants to taste it again.

“You about ready?” Negan asks him. “Because I might do some real damage if I have to wait much longer.”

Carl shakes his head and then changes it to a nod, not even sure what question he’s answering. “Fuck me,” he says instead.

Negan’s eyes slide up and down his body, considering him. “Let’s get you on top.”

Carl makes a disgruntled noise. He doesn’t want to move, just wants Negan to fuck him into the mattress, get the job done. He’s good at that. Besides, he doesn’t have much experience on top, has never felt confident doing it, and being dressed up like this isn’t exactly making him want to put himself on display.

Negan stands up, not even bothering to address the complaint he clearly saw written all over Carl’s face, instead going over to the drawer and taking out the lube.

“No,” Carl says desperately, propping himself up.

“Girls need a little help sometimes too,” Negan assures him, climbing onto the bed, propping himself up on the pillows so that he’s at a right angle to Carl. “I go in for a long session with any of them and their bodies don’t always keep up.” He dribbles a little over his cock, holding the bottle up to Carl. “This has been in that drawer long before you got here, I didn’t break it out just for you, princess. You’re not so fucking special.”

Carl stares as Negan wraps his hand around his dick, sliding it wetly up and down. He makes a deep noise in his throat, his hips lifting upwards, fucking himself slowly into his fist. Negan’s words echo in Carl’s head as his eyes stay riveted, trying to process them as his brain feels like it might be dribbling out of his ears.

“Now,” Negan says, refocussing Carl’s attention. He points down at his dick, slick and standing proud. “You want to sit on this?”

“Yes please,” Carl responds honestly.

“Then get over here,” Negan says, shuffling himself down so that he’s laid back on the pillows.

Carl sits up, moving over to Negan’s side, Negan stretching his legs down the bed once Carl is out of the way. Carl holds onto the bottom of his dress, considering his options, but the panties feel like they’re tying his legs together and he’s not sure how he can negotiate climbing on top of Negan.

“Yeah, you might need to take them off,” Negan agrees, seeing Carl’s hesitation.

“They’re… holding things in place,” Carl tells him. “I don’t want to take them off.”

“I won’t even be able to see with your dress in the way,” Negan assures him.

“But it feels different,” Carl insists. “I like that nothing can move too much.”

Negan nods. “We’ll have to get something that straps it all up but still lets you open your legs nice and wide,” he says. “I’m a good problem solver, I’ll figure it out. But right now I don’t have enough blood in my head to stand up.”

Carl smiles, ducking his head. “Okay,” he agrees.

He kneels up, sliding his hands under his dress and pulling the panties down, his cock springing out from where it was held against him. Carl tries to ignore it, sitting down to get the panties the rest of the way down his legs. They’re wet with lube and come and he tosses them over the edge of the bed, wondering if they’re ruined.

He can move much freer without them and he straddles Negan, the skirt falling down around him, hiding Negan’s cock from sight, and somehow it makes this all feel almost modest. Negan’s hands go to his waist as Carl reaches beneath the dress, wrapping a hand around Negan’s cock, unable to resist giving it a couple of strokes. He watches Negan, growling through gritted teeth, his hips surging upwards, and Carl can’t help the smirk that comes over his face. He loves making Negan feel like this.

He shifts, moving until he has himself lined up, and then he sinks down, one slow, smooth movement. He shudders as he settles against Negan’s hips, his cock buried deep inside him, and it brings tears to his eye in the best possible way. Negan’s hands are so tight on his waist as he lies there, gazing up at Carl, taking it all in.

“That’s my girl,” he says.

Carl grins, feeling himself glow, not an ounce of self-consciousness left in his body. He feels free, feels so in touch with himself and so in touch with Negan as well, the room thick with intimacy in a way it never has been before. This is different because, finally, this is real.

Carl braces his hands on Negan’s chest and lifts up his hips, sinking back down to a gratifying groan from Negan. It spurs him on, makes him move a little faster, a little harder, losing himself to it, the way Negan holds him, the way his hips come up off the bed to meet him halfway, their bodies slamming together. Carl can feel his dick moving against the fabric of the dress, rubbing against it, and it ruins the illusion a little but it still feels good. Every sensation is a good sensation right now.

Negan sits up, pulling Carl more snugly against him, sliding the dress from his shoulder and exposing his chest. Carl falters as Negan leans in, licking over his chest.

“Don’t,” he says. “There’s nothing there.”

“I like titties,” Negan says against his chest. “Big titties, small titties, I don’t care.”

He licks over Carl’s nipple, sucking it into his mouth, making Carl moan and arch back, offering himself up. He closes his eye, pretends Negan has more to work with. Negan moans against him, clearly having nothing to complain about, and the sound reverberates through Carl as though the noise came from inside him. Maybe it did. The line is getting very blurred.

Negan lifts his head, yanks Carl down into a kiss. He falls backwards, pulling Carl on top of him, everything so ragged and desperate. The kiss is all tongues and saliva and bad aim but neither of them can get enough, gripping hold of each other, their hips still moving on instinct alone. The angle is nowhere near as good though so Carl props himself back up, his head spinning, arching his back and feeling so wonderfully uninhibited.

Negan’s hands slide under his dress to grip his hips, fingers digging into the flesh as he fucks up into him. Carl moves with him, lets himself be guided, putting everything he has into just keeping up. Negan tightens his hands painfully as he comes, holding him still while he slams into him, taking everything Carl’s body will give him, that hot slick slide of his come inside Carl’s body making him whine, his own dick throbbing painfully, but he can’t think about anything else while Negan has him held there, using him like he’s the greatest sex toy in the world.

As he starts to come down he pulls Carl’s body flush against him so that he doesn’t slide out, holds him there while his chest heaves, his eyes closed as he lets the last shudders run through him. Carl tightens around him, his body still on that edge, and he sees the sensation run through Negan’s entire body, fingertips twitching against Carl’s flesh.

He opens his eyes, looking up at Carl, just staring at him for what seems like the longest time. Then his hand moves, the heel of his palm pressing Carl’s cock flush against him, his fingers playing over the head. It’s exactly how Carl taught him, exactly what he needs right now, that final piece of the puzzle.

He bites down on his lip, rocking into it, Negan’s softening cock shifting inside him, still just enough to join all the dots. He tries to hold Negan’s gaze at first but it’s exhausting and it’s holding him back. Negan can watch if he wants but Carl isn’t putting on a show. He’s taking this one for himself.

He takes a deep breath, his head falling back and his mouth hanging open, eye closing against the sensations that flood his veins. Negan’s other hand slides back, squeezing his ass before moving down, tracing his stretched out hole, still held open by Negan’s dick. Carl moans, tightens around him again, knows from the reaction of the body beneath him that Negan feels it too.

It starts in his brain, his head, travelling down his body, over his skin, like sweat dripping off him. It’s a wave of heat and pleasure that goes down the backs of his legs, right to his toes, before it finally centres in his groin and everything fractures and explodes. He cries out, his body riding the wave, knowing just what to do, so Carl switches off, trusts himself, does nothing but feel as he covers Negan’s hand in a sticky mess.

It goes in waves just like it came, ebbing away until there’s nothing left but his own ragged breaths. Nothing seems to exist except for that. He falls, Negan’s cock sliding out of him, sprawling on the bed by Negan’s side, his eye still closed as he waits for the world to come back.

The first thing he becomes aware of is a wet sound. He opens his eye to see Negan sucking on his own fingers, clearly cleaning up Carl’s come. It sends a throb through him, like his whole body has a heartbeat. He watches, everything slightly out of focus, Negan not turning to face him until he’s done.

“I think we made a mess of your dress,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Carl tells him, letting his eye fall closed again. He can’t care about anything in that moment.

Negan shifts beside him but he knows just how much space to give Carl, doesn’t crowd him or talk to him or over stimulate him. As Carl’s body starts to unwind, his breathing returning to normal, he feels Negan’s fingers in his hair, stroking through the strands, arranging them neatly. He must look a mess. He wonders if he’s ruined his makeup. He thinks about his dress again and he does care but if it is ruined it was worth it. It’s not like he could wear this thing every day anyway.

“I need something more casual,” he says aloud, his voice slurring.

“What’s that?” Negan asks, sounding irritatingly together. He came first though, Carl reasons, he’s had longer to recover.

Carl swallows, opening his eye. “Casual dresses,” he says. “I can’t wear a cocktail dress every day.”

Negan nods, looking thoughtful. “Okay.”

“I’m not going to wear a dress every day,” Carl adds. “But if the option was there… I think I’d like to wear one sometimes.”

“Sounds good,” Negan agrees. “Let me know what kind of thing you want, I’ll keep an eye out.” He tucks Carl’s hair behind his ear.

“Is it a mess?” Carl asks.

“You still looked beautiful,” Negan assures him. “Debauched, but beautiful.”

Carl smiles at him, shifting in closer, pressing his forehead against Negan’s chest as they both lie on their sides. Negan’s hand slides back, fingertips playing over the nape of his neck, making him sigh. He wants to fall asleep but he wants to hold onto this mood, doesn’t want to lose the feeling he has right now. He’s scared that when he wakes up he’ll just be a boy in a dress again and not the real thing he almost feels like now.

“I want fitted jeans as well,” he says, forcing himself to say it out loud. He can’t take it back then. “Practical but not baggy like the ones I have now. Not boy’s jeans. And I want tops. Floaty, girly, but subtle. I could get away with that.”

“I wish I could take you to the mall,” Negan says. “It’s a fucking death trap, full of the dead.”

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. He imagines himself in pristine department stores, the women’s department, everything his heart desires laid out in front of him. He smiles to himself. “Whenever it was a special occasion, Christmas or an anniversary or a police ball or whatever, my mom would take me into Atlanta with her and we’d go to Macy’s so she could pick out a dress. I used to love walking around that store, looking at all the pretty things, helping her pick out an outfit. She always bought me ice cream afterwards for being so patient. She didn’t realise it was the dresses I really loved.”

He never understood the interest back then, didn’t question it until he started to get older and he realised it wasn’t a normal thing for boys to be interested in.

“I always liked the way she dressed,” he says. “And sometimes she let me brush her hair. She didn’t treat me like I belonged in that world though, I was always set aside from it. I knew I was supposed to follow in my dad’s footsteps.”

“You can follow in whoever’s footsteps you want,” Negan tells him, something protective in his voice.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees. He’s starting to believe that. “I had a friend,” he says. “Her name was Beth. She always wore jeans but she was still girly. She wore cowboy boots and jewellery and her hair was always pretty. There was just something about her. She was sweet and she was good and she was kind but she was brave. You wouldn’t think it to look at her but she was one of the bravest people I knew because she just kept going. She taught me how to braid my hair. She didn’t know why she was teaching me, but she did. I wanted to be like her.”

“I think you are like her,” Negan tells him.

“I’m not good and kind,” Carl insists. “I’m nothing like her.”

“I don’t know that there’s anyone good and kind left,” Negan responds.

Carl squeezes his eye shut, old memories coming back to him, the people that he’s lost, everything that’s been stripped away over the last few years. But there’s still good people. Carl’s not one of them but they exist and that gives him hope, hope that it’s not all over yet.

“The thing is,” Carl says. “If she were here, if she was your wife, you would have taken away my favourite part of her. You wouldn’t want her to be strong and independent and brave. And it breaks my heart to think of her like that.”

“Carl,” Negan says, tilting Carl’s head back to look at him. “Those girls up there, my wives, they married me because they’re done with that. I didn’t take anything off them. They don’t want to fight. They don’t want to have to survive. I gave them another option and they took it. Now they’re safe and they’re protected and they’re very comfortable. And very grateful. And that’s what they wanted. But you. Well, you’re here because you actually like me.”

Carl thinks back to his first time in the Sanctuary, the things that attracted him to staying. It was never about penance. He was drawn to the harem, what it had to offer, a lifestyle that he felt he could fit into. And even then, even when he came here to kill him, he couldn’t deny that Negan’s charm attracted him as much as it scared him. Somewhere along the way the fear and the hatred fell by the wayside and maybe it really is as simple as that. Maybe he just likes Negan.

“And I didn’t choose you for the same reason I chose them,” Negan goes on. “I didn’t choose you because you needed me. Maybe I chose you because you didn’t. Sometimes I just can’t resist a challenge. But that means your expectations are different to theirs. I’m starting to realise my expectations need to be a little different too.”

Carl looks at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means guard duty twice a week, always inside the fences, always with a partner,” Negan says, his voice firm, no room for negotiation.

“You’d be okay with that?” Carl asks.

“I’d be willing to give the trial an indefinite extension,” Negan says. “It’s not a sure thing. It’s not something to take for granted. But we’ll work with it. We’ll see what happens.”

Carl nods his agreement, trying not to grin, to look like he’s taking it seriously. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Negan trails his hand down Carl’s side, following the line of his dress, sliding it back to grab his ass. “You can wear your skinny jeans,” he says.

Carl smiles, shifting closer again to curl back into Negan’s chest.

“I’ll ask Simon,” Negan continues. “He knows all the best places around here, I’ll see if he has any suggestions. If that fails, I’ll just steal you some. All these communities don’t need to be so nicely dressed.” His hand plays with the hem of Carl’s dress. “I’d like to take you to pick out your own things though,” he says. “Like for your room. This stuff’s important, you’re growing up, working out who you are.”

“In a more complex way than most,” Carl agrees.

“It’s a complex world,” Negan responds.

“Not really,” Carl says. “It’s all stripped away. All you have to do is survive.” He remembers the words on a piece of paper. “Just survive somehow.”

He thinks about Enid, wonders if she’s okay. She’s with Maggie and Sasha, he’s sure she’s okay. Strong women looking out for each other. That’s a world Carl wants.

He thinks of the kiss, his last attempt to be normal before he fell into all this, working out where he belonged. He wishes he could talk to Enid, explain it to her. Maybe he’ll get the chance. Maybe she’ll understand.

Shifting against the bed he thinks of his own room, his own bed, waiting for him. He imagines wrapping himself in his new blankets, snuggling up with his new pillows, his feet landing on the sheepskin rug as he climbs out of bed in the morning. As much as he appreciates Negan’s very comfortable bed, as well as the opportunities staying there has afforded him, he can’t wait to get back to his own space, a little corner of the world that’s just for him, the real him, the one he’s not going to bury anymore.

Attempting to follow in anyone else’s footsteps is useless. It’s just setting himself up to fail. He’s been in the wilderness, it doesn’t scare him, he can forge his own path. He’s looking forward to it.


End file.
